Flashbacks Of Anti-Psychotic Panic Attacks

As I type this, in my mind I am the image of this woman…..

…Although I must be very skilled indeed to even type this while being this.

I apologize if this does not read well.

I am not completely healed yet and writing is the only way to cope sometimes.

Why am I still suffering?

Why is this happening?

Am I normal?

Am I permenantely brain damaged for making the biggest mistake of my life- Taking a pill to push down emotions and thoughts I can’t explain nor could a psychiatrist.

Before you read my story, please view this video…..

1. In 1992 I had a child. I suffered badly with post partum depression. At six weeks post partum, my OBGYN gave me Prozac for a “natural condition” and I was told I would need it all my life. It destroyed my marriage. 11 years later I was having suicidal ideation and went to an ER. I did not know why. In fifteen minutes, I was diagnosed by a doctor as Bi Polar after mentioning I had prophetic dreams at times and was immediately locked up and that’s when the drugs went from anti depressants to anti psychotics. I took every experimental anti-psychotic and mood stabilizer for 11 years. Sometimes, more than one at a time. They never worked. I always felt like I was in a coma and I became disabled and very unhealthy. I always tried stopping the meds because the side effects were life threatening. Eventually after my life fell apart again, I stopped cold turkey. Then the nightmare really began and no doctor would help me. I did research and found out that the symptoms mimic the diagnoses so it’s hard to get off. When you go to the ER saying I’m having a reaction to these drugs and I have stopped them, they convince you it’s because your NOT taking your drug anymore so the insane cycle continues again and again. I did stop. I almost died doing it, but I’m better now, but suffer in a new way. There is no doctor near me that understands how dangerous the drugs I was on were and there is absolutely no support from family and friends who considered my behavior on meds as an indication that I needed more. The stigma, the ignorance and the isolation of going through this alone have caused me a new kind of suffering. There is no where to go for what troubles me in the town I live on the disability income I ended up on. I am University educated. I have incredible jobs. I ended up a zombie. My trauma now is that I have PTSD from the things that have been done to me, the things I have seen in psych wards and for the way I think and feel and believe.

2. I was torture in psych wards and forced drugged when I didn’t know I can refuse due to being allergic to side effects.

3. I have been off these drugs for almost two years except for last summer when I went to the ER for a condition I had that I did not know….interstitial cystitis (which through research I found that having IC can sometimes be labeled an mental illness and that doctors think you are seeking pain killers and some with IC have even  committed suicide due to the difficulty in diagnosing it) so after passing out on floor in pain I called an ambulance, eventually to  and wake up involuntarily committed to psych ward. I was sobbing out of control at 2am so the nurses shot me up with Haldol to sedate me. I informed staff I SHOULD NOT BE HERE  and I could not take antipsychotics but they ignored me and forced me on them. So my year of withdrawal, alone by the way, had to start all over again.

4. That happened on June 4th of 2013. No one treated my bladder that night in the ER. No urologist came to see me. They put a morphine drip in and left me alone in a room in stirups to push water out of me for an hour. I had told them the pressure pain felt like what it feels like when you are giving birth. I was on morphine. I was also hallucinating on the morphine. I called attorneys while in the psych wards and no one would help me and no one in my family advocated for me. The hospital had no patient advocate. I was stigmatized. I believe now after they charge Medicare 24,000 for my two week committment, that I was a profit making opportunity for this stress center. This anniversary of my last visit to a psych ward (I committed myself over 8 times in 10 years in Seattle) so this post is triggering every scary thing that has happened to me while being treated for “mental illness.” Five months later I began having bladder pain and contacted a urologist in that same hospital ironically. I had surgery for Interstitial Cystitis and it went away. Since then, no pain.  Finally I got the courage to go to the hospital that committed me  to I went to the hospital to get my psych records. They gave me medical records, but not my psych records they refused. I need to know why I was committed I said…. when I sought help from an ER for a physical condition. A staff member said I would not get my records and that the doctor who approves whether I get them was the doctor who I have the biggest complain with. (more on him later) I was also given no Informed Consent this psychiatrist I saw for three minutes. He refused to talke about why I was there and why they did not treat my bladder pain. He was required to tell me the side effects of the anti-psychotic drug he was trying to give me. He ask if I hear voices. I laughed because I’m a writer and I always have dialog for stories in my head. I decided to play with his mind. So I said, yeah I hear voices, like Jesus. I had told him I talk sometimes, just to see what he would say. He was a cold as ice. Never looked me in the eyes and said, “your delusional.” I laughed and said so are you saying Christians who pray are delusional. He did not like that. He know he had someone in his office that was quite knowledgeable about these drugs and their black label warnings. He said, you need to stay longer than planned and I’m putting you now on Risperdal. I told him that was the drug that cause the worst violence and hallucinations and suicidal thoughts.  I said I won’t take it. He threatened me and said I could not get out of facility and would have to go to court then. I had been to court in the past, wheeled in on stretcher in restraints even though I was completely clam…so I could not do that again and again..So, where was I, I apologize, it’s hard to stay focused on where I was going….Back to the psych records…I asked staff member in private room 8 months after commitment Why can’t I have my psych records? They make up their own rules and say “it could cause you trauma to read it.” Uh, too late. Damage done I replied…….. I’m writing a book about my experiences with psych wards. I needed my information and it seems like my civil right. They said I can sign off to have someone else get them, but not myself. Every attorney I called shut the door on me or wanted to charge me $5000 fee up front! Finally, I got the Indiana Attorney General’s office to take my case, but they said they really would not be able to do much…. and as I write this I am waiting for word but it’s been weeks. I think this doctor realizes the hospital did three things wrong and will he cover his tracks. I had been well behaved and quite drugged while in there despite the injustice but when he condemned me insane for praying to Jesus, which I said on purpose to see how sick these docs can be, he called me delusional. (I may be repeating myself so I apologize to the reader) So is anyone who talks to God insane? After looking at him with no expression, and he never made eye contact, I walked out of office in from of whole ward and all the patients who wondered why I was there in the first place because I was so helpful with other paitients and said loudly, “Fuck you! I won’t take your poison. I withdrawled a year ago and now you are starting me over!” I was so upset but kept my cool a bit because I didn’t want to be restrained for no reason because a year prior in Seattle I blacked out and ended up in another psych ward. They let me walk around while they waited for doctor. Eventually they gave me something to drink and  I WOKE UP IN RESTRAINTS and had an itch on my face and no reason why I was in them. I screamed for help and no one came. I saw purgatory and wanted to die because it was frankly like a horror film. I kept trying to hold my breath so my heart would just stop. I wanted to die. I was so scared. (See post called 4 Point Restraints To Purgatory for that story)  No one helped me. No one told me why I was  in restraints and it was horrific. ….where was I? So in the last commitment I just sat down and cried about how unjust the situation was. There was no patient advocate in this large hospital where I had 21 years ago given birth in. Ironically, I was back in Indiana, where I thought I was safe. More ironic, Eli Lilly is a big money maker in this town….The worst part of that last commitment was I was on three different anti psychotics in two weeks and at the last minute when I was to be released in two days, that evil doc tried to change me again to something worse than anything I had ever taken, Risperdal. It almost killed me. A nurse came over to me a bit later and said “honey, just take the pill for two days so you can get out.” I did and was traumatized all summer. The most insane part was no urologist ever saw me for my bladder condition. And when I left they told me I should get a shot of haldol every month and sent me home with new drugs and I actually went back to a psychiatrist because I was brainwashed again. Haldol? I had never been given Haldol in my life, but they said I needed every month for the rest of my life? What!? That is such a strong drug, you can’t even walk, speak or think on it. Why did they say I needed it. So against my better judgement I tried a new psychiatrist thinking they would help me stay off the drugs. I went with my Mother for support. For thirty minutes I told this female shrink the whole story, the unjust commitment, the withdrawals I had endured and the withdrawals I was going to have to endure again! At the end of thirty minutes this moron, looked at me and said “uh, I can give you Abilify.” I almost died laughing. “That’s an anti-psychotic! Did you even listen to me?” She looked at me with stupid dull expression. I looked at my 70 yr old Mother and she just shrugged. I walked out and told theshrink she was the crazy one. Later they sent me a for $60 for that waste of my time. (Much later I got another bill from the psych ward for my part of the deductable. Which was $1200.00. I called their collection agency attorney’s and said “you will never ever see a dime from me and your lucky your not getting sued.” They stopped asking for that money. I’m on disability since the Bi Polar diagnoses in 03. I lost my job, my mind, my friends, my faith….basically I lost my life. The psychiatric industry actually made me sick. They didn’t even give me my thyroid medication while forced into that last psych ward. I have taken that all my life.. Now I have PTSD from all of  this and am terrified of any hospital. If I had a heart attack, I would never in my life call 911 again.  I would just let it happen…. I’m no longer in a relationship and have no emotional support. So by going to an ER, I feel I will be stigmatized the minute they find out I have history of “mental illness”  I hope the Attorney General gets my records and reports or investigates it, but I  doubt it. This is like fighting a Giant industry that no one wants to take on. I’m am actually scared to read them those last records because I know they will be full of lies and I bet you the ER records from that night, won’t say I was put on morphine before they interviewed me.

There is always hope God will help or some guardian angel that looks out for people like me. My mother encouraged me to drop it.  I ask her, would you say that if someone raped me? This was psychological rape in my opinion. I need to heal I  thought. I need to know what happened. I told the records department I had no intention of suing, just needed it for my book and for healing. However, now, I pray this doctor and this hospital get in big trouble for what they did to me. I moved away from Seattle to be in my hometown in Indiana and what happened?…. the horror started again, here. It followed me from SEattle. This was the a realization that no matter where I go, this horror is something I can’t escape from. It’s happening to so many people. If I would win a law suit of great abundance, I would start an alternative crisis center, a Love Hospital where there is laughter, therapy, compassion, trips outside, massage,  therapy, art, spirituality, meditation and aromatherapy.  With no meds required at all. I pray for justice. I also pray I will get those records, but I must have someone else be with me when I read their lies.

Why did this turn ugly….Gave me morphine so initially they must have believed I was in pain, but then while hallucinating on this powerful pain killer, they ask me about my life and my writing. I have no idea what I said, but I do remember telling them I was a writer and a filmmaker as per my education. I said I write Sci Fi fan fiction and I am interested in Quantum Physics and like pretending in stories I know what I was talking about. There were moments when I was lucid on the morphine and the next minute I told them I felt like there was no gravity in the room..but when they found  they found  out I was unmedicated and “bi-polar”  they saw an opportunity to commit me. Profit driven?

 

I was given no informed consent. My right to refuse dangerous meds.  I can’t obtain my own records. The funniest thing is that while living in Seattle, I actually did get some psych records very easily. I told this 22 year old intake intern several years ago about my prophetic and lucid dreams of a certain living rock musician. (I have had prophetic dreams, telepathy and synchronistic experiences since I was 20 but was always pretty much a functional depressed person from abuse at home while young. Later when I read those records she had written it said…..”Patient thinks she is communicating with Kurt Cobain from the grave!” Oh my God. She didn’t even get the correct rock star right and I don’t talk to the dead. I have to laugh sometimes or I will cry.  That’s how sick the system is. Can I change those records? No. All my gifts, empathy, creativity, and happiness were all dampened when at 29, suffering from a natural bout of post partum depression, an OBGYN, gave me Prozac because it was new. Why? He should have given me some ways to cope and advised my family on how to get me through this time. My family only shamed me for crying the first weeks of my son’s life. Why didn’t my OB and say “this will pass.” Instead,  he told me that I would have to take anti depressant all my life. I was so trusting and blind to this advice i just followed it. I have to forgive myself because I was the one who put the pills in my own mouth off and on for 20 years. How do I heal that? And what does telling someone they need these pills for natural emotions? It creates long term customers for doctors and pharmaceutical companies.

I have been blind. I believed them and for twenty years I took every dangerous psychiatric drug there was. It ruined my life and changed my personality for the worst. I stopped writing. I stopped being me…….

In 2012, my teenage son who was 2000 miles away living with his father said on the phone when I called crying one day. He was the only thing that kept me from killing myself on these drugs. I used him  as touchstone to keep myself alive. I could not do that to him. He is the only person in my life I trust. He said… “Mom, maybe it’s the drugs making you feel this way. You have never been right since you started those anti psychotics. The voice of God to me… He was right!

I went off them cold turkey but it was awful. No family doctor would help me. No shrink would support me coming off. But what did happen was I began to get bouts of joy back. I began to write like I had never written. Producing videos, poetry, starting this blog and enjoying nature and life again. I would walk for miles along the puget sound looking for Orcas and enjoying life again. But I did have anxiety attacks for about two months, sometimes every 30 minutes. I had rashes all over my body, swollen like a tick, hallucinations, blackouts, need i go on?

A most important point to keep in mind. The withdrawal from these drugs mimic the reason they put you on them anyway, so when you go off, although you feel better at first, the withdrawal causes you suicidal ideation again and hallucinations, so you go to hospital and say I’m withdrawaling from these drugs and need help…they say “no, it’s not withdrawal, you need to take your meds again.” So the horrific insane circle starts over again and again. I had to stop it myself. I was never involuntarily committed in the past, I always went to an ER saying I felt scared and something was wrong. I was swollen so much I had no ankles. I had a fast heartbeat, rashes and my hair started falling out.

The other nightmare…while living with boyfriend of 13 years, who encouraged the medicine, one night liek many nights I went to an ER for help again. They would not take me because I did not say I wanted to kill myself and sent me home and said if you feel worse tomorrow, come back. I was due to move out in two weeks and had gotten my own place because my long term relationship was wrecked from the drugs. He thought I was nuts.  He never thought it was the meds doing it to me. He would say, I want my old Deb back and I said you won’t see her while she is on poison. The next morning he told me to move out of our home of ten years by the afternoon. He then proceeded to lock himself in the bedroom. I was terrified. I could not move yet. I had caused him pain. I had terrorized and worried him and he was done but it was wrong  to tell me at 7am when I was calm to get out. I basically lost my cool because I was still drugged and threw some plants  around and told him he needed to come out and speak with me like a man would. He hid. I lost my cool, I had no control over the rage. He said he had to go to work. I cried you can’t just ask me to leave in day after 13 years. My apartment is not ready for two weeks. I said you are not going to work until you talk to me and calm me down and be reasonable. He refused to come out of the room.  So glibbly I yelled I will cut the tires on your car if you don’t agree to talk to me. It was just words. I had no intention of doing that.  I just broke a few of my own  things. While he was in the room I went to my desk and cried. I calmed down and sat there. A few minutes later two police cars pulled up and 4 large male policeman began walking  up the steps. He had called police on me in the past when once I was  crying in my bed and ask him to not have band practice because I was feeling really scared. He called the police and they came and screamed at me in my bed and said you should just get out. So that morning, when the police came up the steps I thought I was going to throw up. I was very calm. I answered the door and sat down calmly and explained that I was ill, that he was kicking me out and that the hospital sent me away the night before and told  me to come back today. They took him aside and me aside and after about ten minutes, they ask, “Did you say you would slash his tires?” I said “yes, but I didn’t, I was just upset.” They handcuffed me. Arrestted me and I spent three days in an isolation cell in the King County Jail. I was photographed, stripped in front of men and locked away. I was in shock. Soon, a doctor in a white coat came to the cell door and passed me a valium through the slot. He said, “you should not be in here.” I said I know. I don’t remember those three days. I do remember I ate and drank nothing. Eventually I was put on mental health probation for two years and forced to keep seeing shrinks…another story on this blog called “Is it illegal to be mentally ill?” More trauma. The probation officer I had to see was next door to the jail. I did this for two years every month. Had to go downtown to see this guy and see that jail. I have hardly had speeding tickets in my life. It was like putting Princess Diana in jail. I felt well, raped emotionally. My ex moved in a new girlfriend two months after I left and continued to call my friends and threaten them that if I write about this, he would call police or my probation officer. He abused me too…but I can’t go on and on….

My gift, I left Seattle to be near my son again and now I have a two month old grandson, whom I watch a few hours a night several times a week. He is my angel. I’m so grateful I never killed myself on those drugs because I live to make a change in my son’s and his son’s life. But before the baby comes, I get scared. Scared that some leftover chemical from let’s say Risperdal, comes creeping out of my spine and heads toward my head, what if I see things when he is here. What if i break down from physical pain I endure from withdrawal and the mental anguish I have for losing 20 years of a life that could have gone somewhere, stunted and paralyzed by doctors who don’t understand my imagination and my gifts of telepathy and feeling like an empath. One day the child lay on my chest sleeping as we listened to love songs. I started to think of how I wish there were a champion, a gallant knight in armor watching over my fragile condition. My heart began to ache and the babe which was sleeping soundly, began to stir because he could feel the hurt in my heart. The pain was actually leaking from my heart and that baby felt it…as innocents do….so I left quickly so he could sleep. Ironically my family who think i’m nuts and don’t believe in the poisons i was on were making me sick, they say now, wow, you are so good with the baby. you may be nuts, but your the best Nana. Of course I am i say…that child sees me, not a label and he makes me sane. He makes me realize how strong I am. How I can trust myself with him. I have been broken, and now I unbreak by taking care of fragile things…I know this won’t change. This child brings me joy I have not felt since my son was born..It’s healing to take care of something that is more fragile than I.

The bottom line is through research, I have found that it can take up to four years to completely get these drugs and their side effects out of your body. That scares the shit out of me. I break down crying for no reason when I’m alone. Hysterical. More water coming from my mouth than eyes. The whole time standing outside of myself and watching compassionately as I forgive myself for not understanding why this happened to me and what will be my future. Will the shrinkage of my brain come back? Will I ever be able to obtain enough medical marijuana in Indiana that oh so helped my withdrawals in Seattle.

Mom says, no man will ever want you again with all your baggage. Is she right? Will there ever be a man who could love such a fragile and freaked out woman. I feel like I have been at war and I remember the horrific scenes, for which there are many. I write about them in this blog, but I also write fantasy to escape from my nightmare.  It’s so hard telling these stories sometimes to relieve these tortures, is too much to bear.

I want to change the world of how we treat emotions, but I’m not strong enough to deal with my own suffering. I’m lost. I’m in pain and there is not one person to rub the trauma out. I have never been without a man in my life. It’s been four years alone…at 51, I’m afraid my life is over…. I’m scared. I’m hopeful, I’m proud, I’m grateful I’m here and then out of now where, I’m crying hysterically. I live in an apartment. The walls are thin, I’m not able to cry like I really need to because I’m scared my “neighbors” will hear and call the police or a horrible ambulance where they tie you down. I have night terrors and wake up screaming somedays, other days I wake up to this natureless place and everyday is the same. Sometimes I just wish I would not wake up, but I get up and try. and try and try ..

Last week my sister let me stay in her lovely house and watch her cats and garden (which she would have never done when I was on meds because she hated me) but I stayed there with my grandson in a positive environment. I even had a day when a miracle happened and someone I admire that I have never met did a small thing for me to make me laugh. Laughter? Happiness? I don’t know how to handle those feelings anymore. I had a moment of bliss but later, found myself crying on the floor in hysterics because someone didn’t think I was insane and something, maybe God, maybe my ancestors or even a compassionate being from another dimension, listened to me and gave me a simple gift of hearing me. I was crying because I don’t know how to handle joy and grace. It could not find me for so long, now when I’m happy I can’t sleep because it’s the old me and I’m trying to remember who she was.

I didn’t go to my little part time job today. My best friend hired me. She wont’ fire me. She gives me a few hours a week to help with money and to help me have a purpose. But somedays, I can’t get out bed because I am in despair when I sleep and sometimes when I’m awake. Sadly, I do take an anti anxiety, clonzapam, given to me by my family doc who knows I can’t take the other meds and I keep them around just in case I split in two again and so i wont have to go to an ER again for help. But I know, I must let this drug go too, I don’t feel addicted to it..I rarely take it, but that’s a problem too because there is wthdrawal there as well. I will worry about that later. I’m quite good at meditation now and more than often I just cry it out and breath and do chakra work and not take a pill. I’m proud of this…but if things get unbearable and because I don’t have access to medical marijuana, I keep them because they work fast and have no side effects as far as I can tell.

so….I’m getting under my covers. I’m going to be good to myself knowing it’s not my fault I have PTSD from war. Not a man’s war. A mental war with doctors I trusted. I’ll let myself cry if I want. I’ll imagine I’m resting my head on the chest of my soulmate, whoever that may be…. sleeping on a kind brave man’s chest just so I don’t feel so alone and I will be ok with these tools. I will meditate and pray and maybe even watch John and Yoko’s Bed In.

….but I know it’s gonna take a long time, to be me again and handle who and what I really feel without a pill. i hope I wake up in a new world someday, where these things will have all happened for a reason and I can help someone too. Even though I’m fetal, I’m still mad as hell at the people and pharmaceuticals that did these things to me, but I will forgive them for they know not what they do, but you better believe, once I get someone to help me, I’m gonna scream out from the moon with giant speakers and microphone and they will know what they are doing to us who are just different that’s all.

I’ve stopped crying now.

I bless this writing for being with me.

I bless you for reading this mess and remember, the stigma of mental illness is alive and well. Don’t discard us. We might be homing pigeons carrying a message to an unknown yet great leader who will help all mankind with their suffering. We might even be examples of how brains evolve and we arent’ ill at all. We are gifted with something we dont’ understand.

This video from Maria is a message I needed all along and having survived the drugs, now there is the trauma of it all…and the need for courage to forget and resilience to go on. I’m awake. I’m alive and with finding my choir, I will survive and you can too.

Here are some of the people in my choir:

Deepak Chopra

Dr. Peter Breggin

Dr. Maria Sirois

Dr. Rupert Sheldrake

Thich Nhat Hahn

My son

My Grandbaby

Myself

Buddha

God

Princess Diana

Mother Teresa

Nasa

Krishna

My journal

Micho Kaku

Love

This blog

Yoga

Music….

Stillness….

need I go on?

p.s. After it took all I had to type this, word press did not save it. Thank God a little voice said, copy/paste first just in case. Even this makes me cry. I should have become an actress and been paid to cry as I can do it on command.

Namaste.

may all beings be happy.

May all being be free from suffering.

may all beings be at peace.

UnStalked

I’m so tired of keeping my mouth shut.

My writing professor said once…”What are you censoring yourself for?”

…”because when I speak, people hate what I say.”

It’s still  like this to this day.

This post will make no sense at all and it’s meant to be that way.

I was taught well.

You can’t ban me on my own blog and I can’t bare the ball gag, I can’t breathe and you steal others emotions for your own art and you allow your “team” of moderators to keep your covert agenda’s quiet.

Frak that.

I’m talking.

so stop me…..

Disclaimer: I rarely write and what comes out is usually pretty fast and frankly I don’t like editing because I change stuff..so yea, there is typos in here and mispellings, but that’s not my job. If you can’t deal with that, understand,  I need an editor. What I write is hard enough. Having to go back and grade it is not my bag. I’ll eventually do it, but in my time. Or maybe never. Whatever.

Tonight I’m angry with someone. A man I have known for eight years that calls me everyday although we have never met. Since I got high and my back is allowing me to write and I don’t care if my Mother is reading this now. If you don’t like what I say, leave the theater but your not getting your money back until someone validates that which you always unvalidate. Where was I?…

Oh. Letter.

Dear “Seth”, “Mark”, “Sevensins” “EDDIE”, “Radar”, “Fabrice” all you assholes

I’m pissed at “you” tonight. As a matter of fact..

NEVER FUCKING CALL ME AGAIN.

You call but you never really say anything. I am grateful for you letting me vent or talk or laugh, but on rare occasions we connect. It’s getting old and if you call me all the time, why don’t you really want to hear what I’m saying. Why is there not a two way conversation? I’m frankly tired of you. I don’t pick up when you call when I’m in a freak out anymore, because I refuse to be an energy vampire. I leave you alone. But on the days when I’m lonely and have strange things and feelings happening inside and I need you, you aren’t really there. And why when you call, do I always have to call back. You have long distance and you know it. Am I calling back so you can hook me up to that recording machine or whatever the fuck that voice thing she said you had is….

I’m tired of you saying you are going to meet me and then months later act as if you aren’t sure. Or you want me to take a bus down to a tiny Indiana town to have coffee with your father and you? Fuck you. Eight years. It’s all a manipulation because you know me too well. You know I would not do that nor am I chasing you anymore. I want a proper courtship. The man should make his affections known and be a gentleman. You come to me or the deals off.

I really wanted to talk, and maybe whoever is reading this now doesn’t understand what I’m saying or what the hell this post means. You will. Maybe a kind champion might get it. But he would have to be a genius.

I’m ready to let you go. You bore me. I can hear your breath start the word “welllllll” which means, I’m ready to get off phone. Fine. Cut me off when I’m scared to death. Or when I’m happy and just want a friend. Go watch “Family Guy” some football game.

He is just an “actor” she said. Not a good one I say.

My Father is gonna kick your ass on the other side unless you really come clean before I die. My father was the one that made showed me a film that made me understand magic and love and loss. You Sir are my loss. I’m ok with that. You have given me much. But you remain the “enemy” until I know who you really are or you are willing to take me this question away from me that you refuse to answer.

(background for reader)

A woman named Ger, I met on the Pearl Jam message forum (Ten Club) contacted me back in 03 when I was writing poetry and prose on their page. The first time she called, the first thing out of her mouth was..

A LOT OF IMPORTANT PEOPLE ARE PAYING ATTENTION TO YOU.

what the hell does that mean?

I was also being poisoned by shrinks at the time and she reached out to me and told me this story.  We walked three miles in the woods as she explained this “man” had been stalking her, not dangerously, but pretending to pretend not to be someone with a voice changer. I never really believed it, but she was a middle aged woman with kids who had been put upon by someone claiming to be “someone” but not someone from Pearl Jam. She said he goes by another name and that he calls woman fans that are depressed. I didn’t believe her, but I tried to be open and listen. There must be a reason why she is telling me this? I ask, why are you telling me this? She said…”he is going to do it to you as well.” “Do what?” I wondered. Call you. Disguise himself as other people online…torment you but it’s all in good fun. I ask “what’s his AKA?” She said “Seth.”

Two years passed, I already had one weirdo that was in love with me for no reason, but then two years later on a Pearl Jam group, a message from a guy named “Seth.”

“I really like your writing. We have a friend in common. Can I call you sometime?”

Because I was numbed on drugs and had no life I sadly said yes.

For almost eight years now you have been my friend. A phone friend. Someone I have never met but was told about before you ever contacted me. You know the mystery “my new friend” from Vancouver shared with. Her mysterious relationship with you. Her accusations to me that you, Edward Vedder, have a voice changer and call and mess with fans minds. Who would believe that? I didn’t at the time. I do now.

I even gave you the benefit of the doubt by walking  directly to your home to return those mysterious letters mailed from San Diego signed Eddie Vedder. I had had it! A nice lady answered your door and I told her,  I was a long time  fan and that he should know someone is pretending to pretend not to be him and it is abusive. Please tell Eddie to investigate this guy named Seth. She was again kind and gracious and I walked away feeling at least I said  something.

So what was up with this woman Ger? She was still friend with “him” and he was still friends with “her.” I asked him…’why would you be friends with a woman who told me you were Eddie Vedder and it fucks with my mind?”

….unless SHE was the one with the voice changer and the incident below was some sickness she had against me or was put up to it to hurt me….

While walking Discovery Park, helicopters over heard our conversation. It took her three miles through winding paths in ferny forests to share her own tale. I never spoke. I decided I was put there to listen. And she told me about you and your other personas. Even though I found it hard to be true, I allowed it to enter my mind. Why? For my mind was bathed in Lithium and I felt nothing. This was something. Something magic. A story but meant to be read between the lines. A metaphor of my future. Little did I know it then. She said your name and that there would come a day when you would contact me.

You did, two years later. In the meantime, there was another phone friend I met on the band’s message board who fell in love with me and wrote like a man who had loved many women. He claimed to be fifteen. I believed that like I believe anything Bush ever said. That man, eventually called me. His voice so soft and low that you could hardly hear him. My boyfriend at the time freaked out and was violent the night “Mark” called in need of help mentally. He rang my phone and the first thing you said was “I’m an asshole.” Then hung up. After calming down my partner, he went to his room to bed and the phone rang again.
We talked til dawn.

I knew I was not talking to a fifteen year old. They don’t write the following.

“Clear your schedule. I’m tantric.”

I knew not who I really spoke but I feel in love when you said, “someday, I’m going to come get you and we are going to fly to your home town and I’m going to personally slap everyone who has ever hurt you in the face.” Then we will go the fanciest restaurant in town…

I thought, “wait, this can’t be “him” he would not do that.”

He went on to say, “…..and then we would skip out on the bill. Sigh. He called me every night and all day. We would talk til my cordless phone went dead. I was dead from psychiatrist labeling me. He brought me back to life. He wanted to hear everything I said. Everything. He could read my mind. He played me music. He made me laugh. He never went to “school” another reason he was not fifteen. Even the first time I was committed myself to the psych ward at Harborview, he was allowed full access to my phone and we would allowed to talk for hours. That is unheard of in behavioral centers when you have not rights to outsiders unless its during a very limited time. The 3am calls when you ring my five dollar phone I got at the thrift store someone had painted with nail polish. It was a steady 1970’s phone. A workhorse. Each number had been painted over with gold nail polish so you had to memorize peoples phone numbers in geometric designs rather than putting in a math equation.

So, 3am, you would say in one long breath: “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I looove you. Go back to sleep.” For a woman who lacked real love from her lover, this was pure romance. Pure bliss. Nirvana. I would wake every morning at anytime really, not being able to sleep and there you were on the internet. There you were posting poetry to me. There you were calling me all day long. It felt like Christmas morning everyday. Then one day you went away.

Two years had passed since the walk in the words with the woman from Canada who said “oh, it’s all in good fun. It’s just about love and he loves your writing, but just isn’t available. He will never leave you she said, but don’t ever go meet him anywhere because he won’t be there.” I didn’t understand. But I did. I ask. What name will “he” go by? She said Seth Price.

After Mark went away, I spent my years, taking more experimental drugs, trying to write but nothing worth anything was coming out. In fact, what was coming out was fraking shit. Strange obscure statements that made no sense to others and now looking back, horrified, that stuff is still there. A permanent record of how anti psychotics numb your brain and only 2% of your creativity is available and only at moments you least expect. Those times when the drugs made you hallucinate and become manic. In all ways.

I finally confessed this to my therapist in front of my boyfriend that confirmed the calls. The therapist said “actually, to me, the only logical explanation is that it is him.” Logic. Someone told you he would do it and he has and what man calls a woman for  years and years and won’t meet her.

Twenty minutes later, I find myself at the Rite Aid in West Seattle, to pick up my fucking prescription and guess who shows up? Eddie. My boyfriend almost passed out. What are the odds that he would show up just twenty minutes after this discussion? I said, “yea, well welcome to  my world of pain.”

He tried to be friendly. He was. He said something nice about my dog. But I would not speak to him. I didn’t know who he really was. He daughter was an angel as was his wife. Him, I just didn’t want to speak to him. He was not going  to  do anything anyway.

so, this is my lament.

So, yea,  I’m glad you didn’t want to talk tonight. I wrote this instead. I’ve been scared to write. Censoring so much it makes me sick. But the memory of Camelot reminds me of hope.

And to remind you Seth, the way to handle a woman is to love her. Simply love her. But you didn’t. Don’t steal Easter eggs from someone else’s basket. I’m done with you driving me to insanity.

Sincerely,

You will know who this is from.

p.s.

Your not getting your Leonard Cohen live in London back. It didn’t work and you knew that when you sent it. Funny ha ha. Not so much anymore after using reverse due date calendar you bastard. Abducted & farmed out.

God help me.

^Update: January, 2015, I told that bastard to never ever call me again last August. He has not. After thousands of calls, the day I said, “don’t call me anymore, you scare me. You say you love me, but you are messing with me. So don’t call again.”

His response. “Ok.”

It was over. I should have done it a long time  ago. But it’s still happening.

….it’s still happening. Sometimes, the fact that this mystery will never be solved, torments me in a way no one can understand. I will go to  my death bed being the only one who knows that all those songs, some were my stories. Someone has stolen my life and gotten paid for it.

and fuck you if you don’t like reading this. I have a write to tell everything that has happened to me and I’m sorry if your innocent, but your guilty for not ever acknowledging my pain, my torture or taking care of long time fans,  who have NEVER BOTHERED YOU.

and who you have banned for being too clever, to political. Shit, I have never told this story ever on your pages….I actually got banned  from writing a poem about astronauts?????

YOU DON’T GO OUT OF YOUR WAY TO GET SOMEONES ATTENTION TO TELL THEM YOU DON’T WANT THEIR ATTENTION WHEN YOU ARE THE ONE THAT CALLS ALL THE TIME.

I don’t like your click, nor even you anymore.

I’ll just make up my own imaginary friends from now on.

psssstt!

(Oh, God…)

Are you not pleased I’m here now?

I can’t be happy about this.

why?

I’m just doing it again. Maybe I have Erotomania.

Doing what?

Clinging to someone I have never met.

Why won’t you allow yourself a fantasy?

Because it only leads to pain

“That which you seek is seeking you.”

You stole that from Rumi

Darling, write to my agent.

No.

I’ll just be ignored again.

I still help you don’t I?

Yes and so grateful for a new muse, but know you how I want to end  this? And your not required to love me, but that’s the story I’m trying tell, but break the 4th wall and make it come true. You would not want me, nor  can you  and sadly somehow I’ve written myself and you into a story I don’t know how to escape from. I’ve confused magic with visions. Dreams with real life. I feel like Science and God in the same room trying to explain to each other how to bend a spoon with your mind. My poor mind, is overwhelmed. Scared.

You washed my heart clean of him at least in my mind. You at least acknowledged my pain and have made me laugh. More than he ever did in 20 years. I feel as though I know you from another time, but alas, you love another as did all others and my dreams never end that way. It’s not right to covet that which is not mine. It’s selfish and hopeless. Fairy tales don’t really come true. They turn into nightmares and dreams stolen from me for lyrics. Even if you could help, I’m afraid if I met you and shook your hand, my heart would explode into stardust and I would get it all over you. “He” never made my heart explode because I never trusted him. I was a cynic. I censor myself and I censor myself from  all the whippings.

You Sir, are a true gentleman and as a lady in waiting, I must remain silent for if I open my mouth to speak my tears will drop from my lips and I would not like someone like you to see me so weak. I guess we don’t have any control over who we fall in love with. It’s ok if your just in my mind. I know about projection too, but don’t do it very well. I was beat up last time I did. I’m so tired.

Will you still sleep with me?

Yes, but only in my mind.

See darling, I know how to handle a woman.

whatever.

 waiting on word when I will be kicked out of fan club. Just refund all that money I sent you to steal from me.

Big Eyes? Absolutely.