i talk. they ignore: A Prequel To My Quilt

I FOUND MY MEGAPHONE!

 Me waiting in ER:  The pen was to keep me from biting & chewing the inside of my mouth.

Entry One:  March 29, 2016;

On December 26, 2016, at 7:45 AM, I left my house for work. It was no different than any other time that I’ve left for work. I was bopping to my headphones & ready to pull my full shift. I clocked on & went straight to work. I don’t remember much of the following three or four days.  For that you would have to ask my daughter, her finance, & a family friend. What I do remember is that I was fine when I got to work and 8:00 AM, and I was still fine at 10:00 AM, when my daughter and I spoke on the phone.

By 10:30 AM, when my daughter came to see me, I had developed a rapid heart beat, an issue with breathing, and was feeling very anxious.

That is about all I can say right now because I need a minute…

Entry Two:  March 30, 2016;

That’s when my daughter & her fiancé noticed that I was shaking uncontrollably. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me as I was starting to panic.

I have social anxiety anyway, so panic attacks are like family to me. They come in hard & fast, make me think I need to fight, flight, or freeze, then slip away & pretend that nothing happened. You know, like family. I have a few other psychological “disorders,” according to therapists’ opinions (mine, too, as I know how to read the DSMs I-V[i]), so before jumping to conclusions. . .

My mind started racing, & I started believing that I felt like I had just snorted or “parachuted” (swallowed a substance -- usually a narcotic -- wrapped in something else, like tissue or a gel-cap) a $5 bump (line of narcotics). I didn’t want to think that way, but what else could I think? I had NOT, knowingly, or willingly ingested anything weird or remotely related to street drugs in over a decade.

Symptom:  Pupil Dilation & Petechiae Hemorrhaging[i]

. . .  I tried assessing my symptoms, but my mind was racing. I couldn’t get my thoughts together. I kept trying to get my muscles to behave. You see. . .

. . . in October of 2003, I was diagnosed with Polymyalgia-Rheumatica[ii] (no relation to Fibromyalgia[iii], which I was diagnosed with last year – 2015). I also was told by doctors that I had hypothyroidism[iv] many, many years ago. . .

. . .  I kept trying to control my muscles & assess whether or not I could, or even should, stay at work. I guess I thought I needed to stay. All I know is that I usually completed all my tasks on time, or shortly thereafter, but that day I was nearly 2 hours late clocking off. Like I stated earlier, my memory of the events of the day are sporadic, at best. No matter how hard I tried to deny it, the only obvious answer was that I was exposed to something toxic while on shift. That would mean I either came into physical contact with a substance by happenstance or I was drugged.

Just the thought frightened me. So, I then had all these thoughts, assessments, & now conspiracy theories going round in my head. All I could think was that I needed to get to the hospital. It was all I could do to sit still, so that wasn’t an option. I couldn’t eat. I even had to force myself to simply swallow water that was already in my mouth without gagging & choking on it. I couldn’t relax. None of my skills for relaxation were working, & my symptoms keep intensifying.

Around 9 PM, my symptoms were so great they were interfering with my breathing. I had my daughter’s fiancé take me to the ER at PeaceHealth Southwest Medical Center. I asked the ladies at the front desk if I could have a blood panel performed because I was certain I was poisoned, or something. While waiting, I asked if I could have a Crime Victims Form, & reception told me that they are not the police, so they are under no obligation to report a crime. They said that was up to me. Later, I asked the triage nurse & was told the same line. Later still, at my release, I asked the doctor, Joshua J. Hurwitz, MD. , that treated me the same question about Crime Victims, & like a good robot, he regurgitated the same response, “We are not the police. We are under no obligation to report a crime. That is up to you.” I was in no condition to speak to anyone, & at the time the phone was frightening me for no logical reason, mind you. I couldn’t understand why no one was taking me seriously. I still don’t.

Me in ER:  I took A LOT of pictures (that was all I could focus on – called “tweaking” or “spinning”)

<3 AS ALWAYS:  Let Peace, Love, & Joy be yours. Blessed Be! <3

*Entry Three:  Coming relatively soon. This is a challenge.

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[1] http://dsm.psychiatryonline.org/

[1] http://www.mayoclinic.org/

[1] http://www.mayoclinic.org/

[1] http://www.mayoclinic.org/

[1] http://www.endocrineweb.com/

Quilt Square Nine: Gesticulate, Dreyfuss, Fallon, & Omnicide!

why is google dumb? or a more specific question, when i search for anything that takes intelligence (it matters not the search engine), i get gobbledygook in return for my inquiry?

for example, richard dreyfuss & i use our hands & arms when speaking. i couldn't remember the term for this, so i googled, "what is the term for talking with one's hands?" in return i received pages of "why do we talk with our hands?," "the science behind talking with our hands?," & many other similar suggestions.

i found it was faster to back to the episode of The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon, with mr. dreyfuss as a guest, on Hulu, turn on the closed captioning (praying that they got the word correct), & find the answer that way. There it was, much to my surprise & relief.

i am frustrated that the algorithm for finding things isn't as sophisticated as it was in the 1980s & well into the 2000s. i am disappointed that folks don't need to learn to communicate &/or expand their minds any longer. it seems that everything in america is so dumbed-down that those of us w/above average & higher intelligence have to rummage through rubbish to maybe/or not get sophisticated answers.

i use the oxford dictionary because they don't just accept words willy-nilly, & i use the oxford comma when i write (you know, for when you would actually pause when speaking aloud to tell the reader that it's not, absolutely not, just a babbling rant). grrr!

i wish you all peace, love, & joy as i commiserate by consuming an entire pound of sugar snap peas & a marathon of jimmy fallon & saturday night live. at least they can hold my attention & are clever AND funny. GAWD! there is a reason that OMNICIDE (which my laptop tells me is the wrong way to spell "homicide"-- not the word i want, folks!--INFURIATING! trust me when i say "omnicide").is my favorite word this week. grrrrrrrrrr!!!! that is all. . .  till something else happens.

Quilt Square Eight: so you want to be my friend, do you? do you really?!

being my friend is a challenge, both in real time & on social media, so I like to give it all to people up front. this has kinda become my one-minute commercial (like what one should have prepared for job interviews). it just makes eliminating the real people from the superficials (& the pickup-liners from the truly heartfelts).

are you sure you want to be my friend? i am a mess, not a hot mess, just a mess. i have major depressive disorder (MDD), post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) from childhood trauma, & i suffer from severe & chronic panic attacks that can be debilitating. being my friend, even on FB is a challenge. oh, yeah, did i mention i am a comedienne? i know. how ironic, but fitting.

i no longer hold my tongue as i've finally found my megaphone. sex ain't my thing as it's always been obligatory. but, i still like to look & flirt. just know that that ain't a part of my life. i feel the same about exercise, too, even though i am studying to be a yogi at present.

i hold no religious ties, but i follow the teaching of christ (he said not to worship him, but to follow his example. so. . . naming a club after him seems like the ultimate form of worship to me) & honor pagan holidays & traditions (i do not participate in birthdays & commercial holidays as most of them glorify a person/people/group(s) of people). i do not worship the pagan gods & goddesses, but I follow their example of stewardship of the earth, herbs, & the healing magick of the latter.

i support our troops & our men in blue, but i will not honor the people that make them do such things. i am a believer that ALL life--from prostitutes. Prisoners,  & the homeless to the president of the united states—all life matters.

i feel compelled to let everyone know these things up front because most everyone that requests my friendship--online & in person--gets offended by me as I am an asshole, exhausted with me because of my disorders, or gets tired of me asking them why they think the way they do.

i may be a bit abrasive & come across as bossy, but i am loyal to those that are loyal. i will always be truthful, not matter what you ask, good, bad, or indifferent. i believe in swift justice, & i'll drop EVERYTHING to help those i love move, deal w/heartache, & celebrate! if i love you, i will try to do so without conditions. however, i am horrible secret keeper (not that i blab on purpose, just that if it comes up in a conversation i’ll use what i know as an example), so if it’s truly something you don’t want others to know DO NOT TELL ME.

if you truly think you can handle ALL of this, then, yeah. . . but think on it first. think about it. . . thoroughly.

Quilt Square 7: Mental Health & Donald Trump

Me: so, i went to an evaluation therapist today (i know what you're thinking, "what? YOU see a therapist?" pssst: i only have PTSD from childhood trauma, MDD, social anxiety, & a few other letters after my name that are not connected to a degree of ANY earhtly kind).

Therapist: Can you tell me who is the current POTUS?

Me: (what feels like a long pause). . .

Therapist: (sounding a lot like ronald reagan) Well, . . .

Me: (clears throat) I think I can. It's (Tim Allen coined the phrase "Verp," meaning those times when you burp & a lil bit of vomit comes to the back of your throat) Well, . . . (in my head I sound like Reagan, now) yes, it's Donald Trump. It's not that I don't know the current president, but this is my first time actually saying it out loud (as if holding it in makes it pretend), & I didn't want to vomit on your beautiful (ahem--pretentious) office.
Therapist: Can you tell me the previous president?

Me: (sits up straight, smiles) Yes, the man that allowed me unemployment benefits that I cannot get now, medical, dental, & ocular care that even i could afford, Former Commander in Chief Barack Obama!!!

Therapist: I don't think you need therapy anymore. You seem very sane (that was his joke).

Quilt Square Six: My Mother's Smirk

I grew up all over The United States. There is no "home" town, as "home" was always a travel trailer, a tent, an apartment, occasionally a house, or anywhere that I was with my mom. My mother was a hippie; you know. . .  the bell-bottom jeans, the John Lennon glasses (the round ones), and tassels on virtually everything. We traveled around so she could work & protest various things. To think back on it, I'm certainly lucky that my name wasn't something like, Moon Unit or Dweezil Zappa.

My mother wasn't simply making statements about the environment, the Vietnam war, racial prejudices, she was rebelling against her entire family. My maternal family is racist at its core; not all of them, mind you. They are very white (truth be told, they are American Indian, Portugese, and Irish) and affluent, live on "the hill," and "don't want nuttin' to do w/da 'monkeys' and 'dog-eaters' (insert all racial slurs here)." My mother made it a point to attend "blacks only" churches and demanded that I not use the "whites only" ANYTHING. For example, when we were living in a very small town called Depew in Oklahoma, my mother only had me drink out of the "blacks only" drinking fountain. She also convinced an elder, female family member to go to church with her one Sunday morning; the family member just about lost her lunch when she walked inside and found a congregation full of black folks. My mother just smugly smiled the entire service. That's the smirk I cherish.

My mother died right before Christmas 1977 when I was just seven years old. My life went to shit after she died. It was pretty shitty before her passing, too, but it got so much worse afterwards. I went from family homes to foster care to friends, and noone could handle me. I asked questions. After living the last year I had with her on the Navajo Indian Reservation, I didn't understand authority. I didn't know why I had to get up at a certain time, go to bed at a certain time, and even eat on a schedule. I got into a lot of trouble because I questioned why I had to learn stuff & why I had to stand, sit, and kneel at my stepmother's church (that got me slapped across the jaw, and my jaw clicks to this day. . .  40+ years later).

She wasn’t a saint, that Eileen Taletha, but she was the only mother I had. I’m certain that I would’ve grown to despise her because she was always leaving me with people that mistreated me so she could go party. I was molested by a few, pinched & hit by other children, & was used as a drug mule (mostly pot, but there was other stuff). In fact, I was at a terrible sitter when she died. My last words to her were, “I hate you.” I meant it, & I still do. Who has children just to pretend they don’t exist? We could be in the same freaking trailer, & it was like being alone.

She wasn’t a demon, either, that woman with wanderlust. I loved her so much & wanted to be with her every minute. When she’d get mad at someone for any number of reasons, she’d take off. Sometimes, she’d take me with her, & we’d hitchhike to Disneyland. Other times, she’d dress me up & enter me in “Little Miss” pageants. I could talk to her about anything. One time, I was telling her that I wished I could pee standing up, & she not only told me that I could, she showed me. Bath time was always fun when I could share with my mom. We’d take turns drawing letters & small words on each others’ backs, & she’d tell me stories about the different American Indians. She loved Buddha, Jesus, Ganesha, and any other prophet or saint that encouraged peace. She had statues that moved with us everywhere just to remind her to stay the course.

In short, my mother was a product of her environment. She was human. She’d cut your dick off with one hand while feeding the poor with the other. She was full of love but lacked the skills to actively love me. She was full of righteous anger that she used to fuel her activism. She could see the pain of the oppressed but didn’t know how to comfort my pain. However, she could make me laugh through tears, & that’s still my favorite emotion as it’s like feeling her around me.

It’s because of her that I question everything. It’s because of her that I cannot keep quiet for even the tiniest of injustices. It’s because of her that I speak. It’s because of her that I can be still & know things. It’s because of her that I can’t stand idly by while the world strips people (animals included—just as the American Indians did/do) & the planet of innocence & equality.

I miss my mother something fierce, and I still question everything and everybody all while wearing my mother's smirk.

Quilt Square Five: Happiness Narrative

Have you ever felt happiness? I mean truly, from the tips of your longest toenail to your head hair follicles? Have you ever felt the happiness that makes your body feel like it’s exuding electricity everywhere, almost to the point or even actually to the point of contagion? Well, I have. It’s rare, but it happens.

When telling my life stories, the general public seems desensitized & mostly poo-poo them as just that—stories. It’s been that way, pretty regular my entire life, literally (in the true Oxford definition!)!  However, there have been some folks that have been moved by my stories enough to believe them & even become what I would consider friends. As a child, I did a lot of the childhood whiny shit, according to the adults around me, but I was really only reacting to my environment in the only ways I could figure.

I was always crying out to God things like, “Why me, God?” & “What did I do to deserve this?” EVERY FUCKING CHRISTIAN CHURCH—many different sects, mind you-- I’VE ATTENDED TOLD ME THAT IF I CRIED OUT TO JESUS I’D BE SAVED! FUCK THE CHURCH I would beg with God that if he took the abuse away that I’d be good.  The abuse would go on, so I’d learn another way to not get caught by man {. . . not that I deliberately did these things (they were almost like instinct, like self-preservation, almost—kind of “a good defense is a good offense” tactic, if you will)}.

Wax them poetic, tragic, romantic, or simply life experiences they are my truths. Believe it or not, truth, integrity, & sheer authenticity make me contentedly happy.

Quilt Square Four: Depth Diminishes with Words

How do I tell you how I feel about your soul,
My fellow lover of linguistics?
I can’t. There aren’t any in my native tongue.
(i) “Aloha” is the closest word in any language,
But, still, it just misses the mark.
It hasn’t the resonance that compares
To the vibration of my soul
When you face me with your arms outstretched.

What song can I dedicate to the emotions that your
Soul brings to mine; none deliver.
(ii) “Sometimes When We Touch” comes to mind,
But only a few lyrics, taken out of context;
Like people do with the Bible so often
As they can’t make the words fit their needs.

What movie, television show, or play,
Can hold a candle to what I experience
When I watch you raising your babies?
Only one, (iii) “Fraggle Rock,” & yet it still doesn’t resound
The admiration I feel when I see
My ideal parenting blossoming in reality.

What topography can I use to describe
This connection? I want to find a mountain
As they are grandiose, but my mind. . . 
It goes straight to the  (iv) mushroom, Egads!
Decay. . . a fungus? I hear the world’s dogma
Shaming me.
Another way you are desirable to me?
You see the underlying connection. Feel it.
As do I.

My body reacts in such a sensual way
When you look me in the eye
That I must look away because. . . 
I fear.


 i “’Aloha’ is being a part of all, and all being a part of me. When there is pain - it is my pain. When there is joy - it is also mine. I respect all that is as part of the Creator and part of me. I will not willfully harm anyone or anything. When food is needed I will take only my need and explain why it is being taken. The earth, the sky, the sea are mine to care for, to cherish and to protect. This is Hawaiian - this is Aloha!” http://www.huna.org/html/deeper.html 

 ii Dan Hill 1977, “Sometimes When We Touch” {partial lyrics, taken out of context (it’s a necessary evil)};  specifically these lyrics:  “I want to hold you till I die, Till we both break down and cry. I want to hold you till the fear in me subsides” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sometimes_When_We_Touch

 iii Fraggle Rock’s “Come & Follow Me:”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUOwfbaKRgY
http://henson.com/family_fragglerock.php?content=story

 iv Mushrooms:  http://discovermagazine.com/2013/julyaug/13-mushrooms-clean-up-oil-spills-nuclear-meltdowns-and-human-health