My hands went numb inside my "boxing" mittens inside my car when I went to deliver my rent check perhaps half an hour into sunset last night. I forgot to check the outdoor temp before I left the house, as I had just gotten up. (Yes, I'm a lazy ass good-for-nothing welfare queen.) (But I'm working on producing jewelry & patchwork stuff!)
At any rate, the heater ran virtually all night. I just turned it down from 74 degrees because it was clearly a hopeless task. Checked the National Weather Service site just now and found it is -6 degrees fahrenheit. 21 degrees below zero with the windchill. At that point, there's scarcely any difference between Celsius and Fahrenheit.
The weather has been cold enough to actually induce me to bathe.
Showing posts with label WTF is up with social services ITC?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label WTF is up with social services ITC?. Show all posts
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Thursday, October 22, 2009
More adventures from the Mcfabulous state hospital
Amy was beautiful and always gave away her arrival with the forcefield of urine-stench that warded off predators for a good solid 6-8-foot radius. Those rank molecules were not contained solely by the black duster she wore day in and day out, nor in the white blouse that she never changed- not even in the elegant long black pin-around skirt that fortnightly alternated with the denim miniskirt, for the odor continued to penetrate the miserable air even in the showers.
Of two things I was certain: one- that Amy had been seriously overmedicated at some point, leaving her shapely legs unable to adapt a normal standing pose, and two- that there was more to Amy than met the eye.
Carrying a perma-stench was a grevous sin, unlike- for instance- shitting your pants. Sure, one might stew for half and hour or so during shift change, but shit was an inherently temporary state. With shit, eventually, depending on your perceived level of competence, someone would either come along and clean you up or berate you until you cleaned up after yourself. With urine, eventually, stuff dried.
By affirming my vegetarian diet somewhere in the shuffle of intake paperwork, I’d foolishly assumed that I had kosher in the bag. So comfortable and homey was the system that I didn’t even know from which end to begin my rant when the day came that my tray came out with a sticker on the side reading “BEGONIAS- VEGETARIAN” and bearing a steaming fried catfish filet.
Such are the times that testify to the utility of the trays being served by through a slit in a steel door, visual contact between patients and food first being made through Plexiglas and (if the tech is so kind) drawn blinds), requests for condiments being heard (or not) through a hole drilled through. Presumably, there was some rhyme or reason behind the restrictions placed on the number and variety of condiment packets issued each patient: the mind reels at the possibilities: Secret hallucinogenic properties of a sugar rush acquired from the consumption of greater than four packets of sugar in a single sitting? A magical midnight feast drawn together of mixed jelly, mustard, aspartame, and pepper? Generally the reasons behind condiment rationing weren’t so exciting: most often, they were simply out of stock. Occasionally, the serving tech would deem the requested condiments inappropriate for meal congruence and deny them on a whim.
Sometimes, they would decline to serve an entire meal to a patient whose behavior was, in their opinion, not suited to the kitchen on a unit of a high-security state mental hospital.
Of two things I was certain: one- that Amy had been seriously overmedicated at some point, leaving her shapely legs unable to adapt a normal standing pose, and two- that there was more to Amy than met the eye.
Carrying a perma-stench was a grevous sin, unlike- for instance- shitting your pants. Sure, one might stew for half and hour or so during shift change, but shit was an inherently temporary state. With shit, eventually, depending on your perceived level of competence, someone would either come along and clean you up or berate you until you cleaned up after yourself. With urine, eventually, stuff dried.
By affirming my vegetarian diet somewhere in the shuffle of intake paperwork, I’d foolishly assumed that I had kosher in the bag. So comfortable and homey was the system that I didn’t even know from which end to begin my rant when the day came that my tray came out with a sticker on the side reading “BEGONIAS- VEGETARIAN” and bearing a steaming fried catfish filet.
Such are the times that testify to the utility of the trays being served by through a slit in a steel door, visual contact between patients and food first being made through Plexiglas and (if the tech is so kind) drawn blinds), requests for condiments being heard (or not) through a hole drilled through. Presumably, there was some rhyme or reason behind the restrictions placed on the number and variety of condiment packets issued each patient: the mind reels at the possibilities: Secret hallucinogenic properties of a sugar rush acquired from the consumption of greater than four packets of sugar in a single sitting? A magical midnight feast drawn together of mixed jelly, mustard, aspartame, and pepper? Generally the reasons behind condiment rationing weren’t so exciting: most often, they were simply out of stock. Occasionally, the serving tech would deem the requested condiments inappropriate for meal congruence and deny them on a whim.
Sometimes, they would decline to serve an entire meal to a patient whose behavior was, in their opinion, not suited to the kitchen on a unit of a high-security state mental hospital.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Istanbul was Constantinople
In addition to colostomy bag guy, there were other fascinating characters populating the tragicomedy of my latest admit to that fine public institution, the state hospital. Take, for instance, the Turk. He spoke perfectly decent English, suitable for embellishing on his illustrious- and presumably largely imaginary- academic career. He claimed a portfolio spread of PhDs in the hard sciences and in literature, decorated by any number of Nobel prizes. Yet he also claimed to have been born in 1996, which was clearly a delusion. He was easily three times the age he claimed. He would hold forth with extended manifestos of silliness in his native language, but he was entirely harmless and generally friendly.
Unfortunately he stuck out like a sore thumb on this secure ward of a midwestern and somewhat ignorant state hospital and caught a disproportionate amount of grief merely for expressing himself in his native tongue- from both the more agitated and aggressive patients and- a great deal less acceptably- from much of the staff. He was repeatedly singled out as being "loud" and sent to his room several times a day for not speaking English.
I actually enjoyed him, in measured doses. He was neither hostile nor agressively sexual toward me/ the limited female population. He clearly had a good head on his shoulders underneath all the detritus. And he taught me a Turkish word- "dura"- which means "hold on/ wait a minute."
He also served endless entertainment unbeknowest to him thanks to his unbelievably high-waisted jeans.
Unfortunately he stuck out like a sore thumb on this secure ward of a midwestern and somewhat ignorant state hospital and caught a disproportionate amount of grief merely for expressing himself in his native tongue- from both the more agitated and aggressive patients and- a great deal less acceptably- from much of the staff. He was repeatedly singled out as being "loud" and sent to his room several times a day for not speaking English.
I actually enjoyed him, in measured doses. He was neither hostile nor agressively sexual toward me/ the limited female population. He clearly had a good head on his shoulders underneath all the detritus. And he taught me a Turkish word- "dura"- which means "hold on/ wait a minute."
He also served endless entertainment unbeknowest to him thanks to his unbelievably high-waisted jeans.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
In which I manage to stay out of the hospital for an entire month. . .
. . .Only to reemerge with a double-booking- admitted to the local psych floor not 2 weeks before being reunited with my much-maligned regional state hospital for the third time this summer.
I like to blame the latter on the former- I was discharged from the local ward on the second day of a total and abrupt restructuring of my crazy meds, scarcely enough time to pony up a life-threatening allergic reaction, let alone get all one's neurotransmitter receptors aligned and firing routinely on the same side. This was my first total med dump and fresh start in as long as I can remember. While I routinely discontinued my meds gradually in the days following a discharge, this d/c of my anti-depressant and anti-psychotic drugs had the unique characteristic of being thoroughly sanctioned by my prescribing physician. And please do note: I continued to take my shiny new rxes essentially as written through discharge and well back into my routine welcome-home flurry of self-destruction. I managed to spin myself into psychosis and the complementary OD on leftover anti-psychotic meds just fine on the trim new combo of oxcarbazepine and buspirone. Though I must confess that my latest delusional break was not the sharp departure from reality that customarily won me a free visit to the emergency department, and my accompanying OD was relatively trifling (a very large daily dose, really not even an overdose- though sufficient to cause partial seizures throughout my night on a heart monitor). Especially in light of the fact that I induced vomiting shortly after I began to feel the effects and called for my ride to the peanut farm not long thereafter.
I used the above as leverage for a swift and low-bullshit discharge from what turned out to be (at the time) a *remarkably* crazy bad unit of the state shithole. One night a patient decided to express his opinion regarding the shit on the unit by brandishing his colostomy bag and whipping it around the dining area and across the front desk counter. When staff denied him a replacement bag, he continued expressing himself directly onto the floor, leaving a trail as he traversed the hallways and two public TV rooms. The techs helpfully set up yellow >CAUTION! WET FLOOR!< signs around the major deposits and proceeded to ignore the human feces punctuating every major thoroughfare of the hall for a couple of hours, ostensibly in the hope that the patient have the shame? embarrassment? dignity? pity? to pick up his own shit after experiencing zero discomfort spreading it around to begin with. Such flights of fancy on staff's behalf only cost an evening's worth of major health code violation- not long enough for it to have any repercussions. And honestly, most of us sympathized with guy enough to tolerate the shitty protest for a couple of hours.
He possessed the intestinal fortitude to literalize what all of us coherent patients had mistaken for a only figurative retaliation against the unfairness of being confined to Monroe Hall. The colostomy patient shat for all of us that night.
It was particularly oppressive being female at a time when the patient population, for whatever reason, was 75% male.
I like to blame the latter on the former- I was discharged from the local ward on the second day of a total and abrupt restructuring of my crazy meds, scarcely enough time to pony up a life-threatening allergic reaction, let alone get all one's neurotransmitter receptors aligned and firing routinely on the same side. This was my first total med dump and fresh start in as long as I can remember. While I routinely discontinued my meds gradually in the days following a discharge, this d/c of my anti-depressant and anti-psychotic drugs had the unique characteristic of being thoroughly sanctioned by my prescribing physician. And please do note: I continued to take my shiny new rxes essentially as written through discharge and well back into my routine welcome-home flurry of self-destruction. I managed to spin myself into psychosis and the complementary OD on leftover anti-psychotic meds just fine on the trim new combo of oxcarbazepine and buspirone. Though I must confess that my latest delusional break was not the sharp departure from reality that customarily won me a free visit to the emergency department, and my accompanying OD was relatively trifling (a very large daily dose, really not even an overdose- though sufficient to cause partial seizures throughout my night on a heart monitor). Especially in light of the fact that I induced vomiting shortly after I began to feel the effects and called for my ride to the peanut farm not long thereafter.
I used the above as leverage for a swift and low-bullshit discharge from what turned out to be (at the time) a *remarkably* crazy bad unit of the state shithole. One night a patient decided to express his opinion regarding the shit on the unit by brandishing his colostomy bag and whipping it around the dining area and across the front desk counter. When staff denied him a replacement bag, he continued expressing himself directly onto the floor, leaving a trail as he traversed the hallways and two public TV rooms. The techs helpfully set up yellow >CAUTION! WET FLOOR!< signs around the major deposits and proceeded to ignore the human feces punctuating every major thoroughfare of the hall for a couple of hours, ostensibly in the hope that the patient have the shame? embarrassment? dignity? pity? to pick up his own shit after experiencing zero discomfort spreading it around to begin with. Such flights of fancy on staff's behalf only cost an evening's worth of major health code violation- not long enough for it to have any repercussions. And honestly, most of us sympathized with guy enough to tolerate the shitty protest for a couple of hours.
He possessed the intestinal fortitude to literalize what all of us coherent patients had mistaken for a only figurative retaliation against the unfairness of being confined to Monroe Hall. The colostomy patient shat for all of us that night.
It was particularly oppressive being female at a time when the patient population, for whatever reason, was 75% male.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Please Don't Donate for Christmas
Everybody wants to volunteer at a soup kitchen on Thanksgiving or Christmas. These are the two times a year when everyone feels generous (perhaps to their own detriment) and larger-than-average donations of food, clothing, money, and household items come rolling in. *However*, it's important to note that U.S Thanksgiving and Christmas span scarcely one month each year. Poverty spans the entire twelve months.
Please don't get me wrong, we appreciate everything you give. (Okay, TBH I don't appreciate the ground turkey, the ubiquitous beef stew, and the 7,000 extra jars of peanut butter I've amassed. Or the canned beets)
But do you want to know on which days it's *really* cool to get some unexpected treat amongst the government commodities?
National Nothing Day (1/16)
Tuesday, the 14th.
Groundhog Day (2/2/)
Mardi Gras
International Women's Day (3/8)
Spring Equinox.
Gay Pride Day (6/29- additively, Nat'l Coming Out Day 10/11)
Bastilles Day (7/14)
Rat Catchers' Day (7/22)
Roseanne's Birthday (8/10)
Hobbit Day (9/22)
Rosh Hashanah
(the dubiously named Canadian) Persons Day (10/14)
Friday the 13th,
Saturdays in any month the letters "R" or "U"
Please don't get me wrong, we appreciate everything you give. (Okay, TBH I don't appreciate the ground turkey, the ubiquitous beef stew, and the 7,000 extra jars of peanut butter I've amassed. Or the canned beets)
But do you want to know on which days it's *really* cool to get some unexpected treat amongst the government commodities?
National Nothing Day (1/16)
Tuesday, the 14th.
Groundhog Day (2/2/)
Mardi Gras
International Women's Day (3/8)
Spring Equinox.
Gay Pride Day (6/29- additively, Nat'l Coming Out Day 10/11)
Bastilles Day (7/14)
Rat Catchers' Day (7/22)
Roseanne's Birthday (8/10)
Hobbit Day (9/22)
Rosh Hashanah
(the dubiously named Canadian) Persons Day (10/14)
Friday the 13th,
Saturdays in any month the letters "R" or "U"
I WANNA BE AT THE YMCA
I was filling out the application and noticed that each
adult membership included kids. They never specify on the application
itself whose kids they must be. The only information they ask of
potential members is name, sex, and DOB. So I went ahead and listed
my younger brother, figuring there might be a program here he'd enjoy
or he might like to come swimming sometime.
Of course *inside the program guide* in tiny tiny print they
elaborate on "kids included" tacking on "dependents as defined by the
IRS". On page 3 they give themselves of standing ovation, "In support
of the YMCA's goal to connect families in meaningful ways, dependent
children living in the same household are included at no charge on
all Adult or Two Adult memberships."
I guess another one of YMCA's goals is to separate non-traditional
families in alienating ways. The "household" rule definitely cements
the non-custodial parent the less invested (read: less loving) parent.
I have to wonder whether Heather would qualify under her 2nd mommy's
membership in the many states that don't allow for same-sex adoptions.
After that rant I realized that _the timeline fits_ for me to be
his mother.He was born in the interim between my first and second
years of college. Admittedly, my DOB doesn't reflect that, as I
was 17 at the time. But at this point in my life unwed knocked-up
teenage dropout is a helluva lot more believable than crumpled
ingenue. Furthermore, neither pleading no snooping on their
behalves will turn up any recent tax return forms for me. Among
the manifold benefits we folks living off the government
on SSI enjoy is government-sanctioned tax evasion. Er, that is to
say, we receive less per annum than a standard single deduction.
So, let's see.
I never would have discoverd all this if I'd just filled out the
application without glancing at the flyer, as I ordinarily would.
I would have simply entered his information with mine and forgotten
about it.
I want to leave it.
But in that case, should I leave our mother as emergency contact?
N.B. Forgive the format, this is a tweaked-out rant on an e-mail copypasta sent to my mother, who is getting me GYM for exmass.
adult membership included kids. They never specify on the application
itself whose kids they must be. The only information they ask of
potential members is name, sex, and DOB. So I went ahead and listed
my younger brother, figuring there might be a program here he'd enjoy
or he might like to come swimming sometime.
Of course *inside the program guide* in tiny tiny print they
elaborate on "kids included" tacking on "dependents as defined by the
IRS". On page 3 they give themselves of standing ovation, "In support
of the YMCA's goal to connect families in meaningful ways, dependent
children living in the same household are included at no charge on
all Adult or Two Adult memberships."
I guess another one of YMCA's goals is to separate non-traditional
families in alienating ways. The "household" rule definitely cements
the non-custodial parent the less invested (read: less loving) parent.
I have to wonder whether Heather would qualify under her 2nd mommy's
membership in the many states that don't allow for same-sex adoptions.
After that rant I realized that _the timeline fits_ for me to be
his mother.He was born in the interim between my first and second
years of college. Admittedly, my DOB doesn't reflect that, as I
was 17 at the time. But at this point in my life unwed knocked-up
teenage dropout is a helluva lot more believable than crumpled
ingenue. Furthermore, neither pleading no snooping on their
behalves will turn up any recent tax return forms for me. Among
the manifold benefits we folks living off the government
on SSI enjoy is government-sanctioned tax evasion. Er, that is to
say, we receive less per annum than a standard single deduction.
So, let's see.
In summary, the YMCA wants to
- Alienate children from their non-custodial birth parents in the case of divorce
- Foster hostility amongst steps and half siblings
- KEEP OUT TEH GAYZE
- Singlemindedly thwart my attempts to maintain a relationship with my brother
I never would have discoverd all this if I'd just filled out the
application without glancing at the flyer, as I ordinarily would.
I would have simply entered his information with mine and forgotten
about it.
I want to leave it.
But in that case, should I leave our mother as emergency contact?
N.B. Forgive the format, this is a tweaked-out rant on an e-mail copypasta sent to my mother, who is getting me GYM for exmass.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Institutionalization is not Housing
Attention! The Good Ship Lollypop has registered a direct hit! All personnel to the Reality Tugboats and paddle for shore!
Yes, my lease is running out. Yes, I was foolish enough to bring up my housing situation as a conundrum with which the county mental social worker might help me. No, hospitalization is not a housing option. And fuck what you want to say about my health, you can't look at me and make a prognosis.
I've already addressed this. Fuck "supportive housing". Double fuck a nursing home.
I swear to god I thought your job description- attached to the "Our Vision, Our Mission" section of the facility for which you work- was to foster the maximum possible safe level of independence for us fuxtored people. You know, in accordance with the most popular beliefs about how mental health care being practiced today?
I've read a lot of the propaganda. Nowhere does it advocate revoking any aspect of an adult's autonomy to promote progress or even tease out stability. So quit swooning at me over every shitty boarding house with a nursing staff that has a free bed. I'm still a fully enfranchised fucking adult; stop suggesting I forfeit the right to un/lock my own door or I'll. . . I'll. . . I'll run away goddamnit!
Yes, my lease is running out. Yes, I was foolish enough to bring up my housing situation as a conundrum with which the county mental social worker might help me. No, hospitalization is not a housing option. And fuck what you want to say about my health, you can't look at me and make a prognosis.
I've already addressed this. Fuck "supportive housing". Double fuck a nursing home.
I swear to god I thought your job description- attached to the "Our Vision, Our Mission" section of the facility for which you work- was to foster the maximum possible safe level of independence for us fuxtored people. You know, in accordance with the most popular beliefs about how mental health care being practiced today?
I've read a lot of the propaganda. Nowhere does it advocate revoking any aspect of an adult's autonomy to promote progress or even tease out stability. So quit swooning at me over every shitty boarding house with a nursing staff that has a free bed. I'm still a fully enfranchised fucking adult; stop suggesting I forfeit the right to un/lock my own door or I'll. . . I'll. . . I'll run away goddamnit!
Monday, February 4, 2008
Another Electile Rant. . .
Of course everyone knows who's going to take the D-nom
in Illinois, but it would be nice to make it clear (to
both remaining candidates) that at least a few of us
have witnessed their in/actions and words in context.
Refusing to vote odds might convey the message to the
2008 dem presidential nominee that he can't get away
with blowing smoke up our asses about social welfare.
God forbid elected officials should actually devote
some thought or attention to the concerns of their
(proposed) constituents.
Lord knows Hillary Clinton refuses. Of course I wouldn't bother with the ramblings of the unwashed and disassociating masses either, if I were that deep in the insurance industry's pockets. Hell, I'd write limericks feigning concern for the state of public health while simultaneously evading the issue of mental illness myself.
Barack Obama doesn't even know the scope of what he's overlooked. It's not bad enough that the man has failed to distinguish between Medicare and Medicaid. His regurgitation of the party line regarding the inadequacy of health care for vets truly flops when he skips the record on the particular dearth of mental health facilities for treatment of PTSD and other mental disorders available to veterans.
It's hardly as if the nation is flush with psychiatric beds or workers, with care being denied disproportionately to veterans. Veterans aren't getting adequate mental health care because the resources de facto do not exist. It's ridiculous to propose "breaking down the barriers" to care before anyone has even proposed "laying down a foundation" for the facilities which would provide that care. In a neighboring county seat, one finds the office of the two psychiatrists serving all public needs and most private for a population topping 80k. This is not exceptional, such figures can be found throughout the US. This is a national crisis, but Barack Obama should at least have an inkling of a clue about the status of his own backyard.
It will be a disaster if either of them wins the
nomination on PR and good looks alone- as far as I'm
concerned both need to undertake some serious
education before either belongs in the White House.
Please use your vote this Tuesday to give support to the candidate whose beliefs you want in the White House, electability be damned. Let's shake these two up. We know damn well by now the danger of a complacent leader.
in Illinois, but it would be nice to make it clear (to
both remaining candidates) that at least a few of us
have witnessed their in/actions and words in context.
Refusing to vote odds might convey the message to the
2008 dem presidential nominee that he can't get away
with blowing smoke up our asses about social welfare.
God forbid elected officials should actually devote
some thought or attention to the concerns of their
(proposed) constituents.
Lord knows Hillary Clinton refuses. Of course I wouldn't bother with the ramblings of the unwashed and disassociating masses either, if I were that deep in the insurance industry's pockets. Hell, I'd write limericks feigning concern for the state of public health while simultaneously evading the issue of mental illness myself.
Barack Obama doesn't even know the scope of what he's overlooked. It's not bad enough that the man has failed to distinguish between Medicare and Medicaid. His regurgitation of the party line regarding the inadequacy of health care for vets truly flops when he skips the record on the particular dearth of mental health facilities for treatment of PTSD and other mental disorders available to veterans.
It's hardly as if the nation is flush with psychiatric beds or workers, with care being denied disproportionately to veterans. Veterans aren't getting adequate mental health care because the resources de facto do not exist. It's ridiculous to propose "breaking down the barriers" to care before anyone has even proposed "laying down a foundation" for the facilities which would provide that care. In a neighboring county seat, one finds the office of the two psychiatrists serving all public needs and most private for a population topping 80k. This is not exceptional, such figures can be found throughout the US. This is a national crisis, but Barack Obama should at least have an inkling of a clue about the status of his own backyard.
It will be a disaster if either of them wins the
nomination on PR and good looks alone- as far as I'm
concerned both need to undertake some serious
education before either belongs in the White House.
Please use your vote this Tuesday to give support to the candidate whose beliefs you want in the White House, electability be damned. Let's shake these two up. We know damn well by now the danger of a complacent leader.
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