A (censored for your safety) Letter from the Looney Bin…

Hey Folks!  18 Nov. 2012  6:40 AM

***UPDATED 11-22-2012 Thursday, 8:40pm ***

I am sure you have heard I am currently under the watchful eye of the mental health community.

They are *slowly* increasing my meds and perhaps beginning to grasp just what I have been saying all along.
There is a *very* serious problem in our society..

Not with me, per se, but rather with the way those with intractable pain
Are routinely treated ( or NOT treated, as the case may be…)
In this community, this state, this country.

We “broken” souls are facing an all-to-real Holocaust.

You think that is too strong a word?
Really?
Thousands die *monthly* due to their inability to access proper pain care.
It isn’t the cost of the treatment(s) or our inability to pay…
Or the logistics.
It isn’t that treatment options aren’t available, either.

Nope.

It is this unholy back-door War by the DEA on Pain Doctors,
and through them,
the medicines they use and the patients they treat.

An ongoing slaughter of our very own mothers and fathers,
Brothers, and sisters, grandparents, and children!
Each of them labeled as “junkies” and “dope-heads.”
Called “drug seekers” and “abusers”,
Merely for seeking to find some kind of surcease for their pain.

The most horrible part?
Even more horrible than the endless days and nights
Of unstoppable agony?

These bureaucrats… accountants,… paper pushers

Don’t even bother to sully their own hands with the carnage they create!
Instead, they relentlessly torture their victims until these poor souls
Break and take their *own* lives…
Spill their own precious blood…
Silence their *own* pitiable cries.

All done to improve these glorified accountants’ “bottom lines”.
They then use those *very same deaths* to try and garner support for
This unholy war on the souls of their fellow citizens!

Priceless human lives reduced to some plus or minus sign in a ledger somewhere…
Just another Check mark in the “win” column.

How “Evil” is that?  O.o

This “War on Pain Medicines” has *Real* casualties.
I know.
I am one.
As close to dead as one can be
While still drawing jagged breath …

I write this with a pencil,
From my “safe room” in the county nut farm.
The crazy house.
The place you are sent when you are to be examined…
“Treated”…
Made “safe” to be in society.

Not seven feet away sits my “Shadow”,
My “One to One” supervisor/protector.
The ‘guardian’ placed over me
To assure society that their policies do not lead to my demise;
At least said demise by my own hand.

This post will be read through before it is allowed to be copied and/or posted on-line.
Examined for sanity.
Scrutinized carefully for public and personal safety.

Apparently it is insane to be overwhelmingly distraught over
Yet another in a series of endless nights
Filled with nothing but agonizing torture and pain.

Somehow it is considered ‘sane’ to scream and cry
Until one’s voice is hoarse
And there are no more tears to cry,

But ‘insane’ to try and do anything
To put an end to it.
To make that psyche-subjugating Cruelty
Finally cease.

*facepalm*

I *suppose* I should feel…grateful…
Right?
Somehow thankful that at least *someone* is
Showing my medical needs a little attention?
Nope.

I feel very little at all.
Period.

I am now treated like all the others with “psychological problems” are treated…
Like it is somehow *my* fault I find myself in this predicament.
Like my perception or analysis is somehow flawed.
Like I am not in touch with “reality”.

Nothing could be further from the truth!
As I have said before,
I may be mentally ill, but I am *completely* sane.
A reasonable man caught between only two terrible choices.

To wait any longer is to a lingering death of agony.
To act means risking my very life.
What part of “THEY WILL NOT HELP ME!”
Does everyone not understand?

I have DONE all the “right” things..
Taken all the tests.
Gone through the “appropriate” channels.
An NO ONE will treat my pain!

All I get when I tell them of my *Verified* pain,
When I show them I cannot keep even water down most days because of it,
When they see the records showing I have lost 80 pounds in the last 60 days,
All they show is a plastic smile and tell me
How “Great!” it is I am losing weight…. >.<

I now get to view that fake plastic smile hourly. 
You know the one…
The one worn by bored checkout clerks,
Or government workers at the DMV..

The one pasted on below those dead, bored eyes.
Taht body language that says they don't believe a word you say.
That knowing "pat on the head" like you are some recalcitrant child
by the nurses and doctors that are paid poorly to deal with you.

You are and become nothing but a marker. 
A perpetual child. 
Dismissed at will.
Forced to beg for the simplest things:

A pencil.
Paper.
A shower, or soap.
Access to music.
A cup of coffee.
An aspirin.

Over the last 3 days, I have hurt so badly I have actually
Bruised and cracked my own bones

Before they would consent to give me even the *barest* amount
of medication to treat my pain.
*Just* enough to make my screams coherent, but not a bit more.

If I was in an auto accident, or some kind of catastrohpy,
And was brought into the ER with mangled limbs,
Suffering with *less* pain than I live with on a daily basis,
I would be comforted and given prompt attention and pain relief.

But because I am *not* bleeding,
Nor have a visible wound,
I, like so many of us,
Is treated like a slacker.
A faker. A “pill-seeker”.
Or even worse, merely Insane or mentally ill.
Leaving the echoes of our screams
To bounce off those pristine white walls…

I see and hear that same dismissive tone
Even from some of my own family.
The “poor crazy man” tone.
That sugary-sweet tone reserved for the mentally ill,
Or the retarded,
Or small children.

They say things like:
Yes Dear“…
You poor thing“…
I understand“…

All the while one can tell by the look in their eyes
And the tone of their voice,
That they do *NOT* care, nor even *believe* you.

Online “Friends” scurry to distance themselves,
Because, (even though they won’t say it), they too *know* how someone is treated
by society once they have entered a place like this.
How they are dismissed.
Laughed at.
Mocked.
For EVER.

They choose to hide from their friends and family the ugly truth.
We are getting *killed* out here.
Absolutely destroyed.
Driven insane in our pain and suffering.

The scariest part?
Sooner or later it will be their turn.

Fun stuff.  Not.

This was a mistake.
Coming here in this way.
Without some kind of outward indicator
Of my internal suffering…

I knew it coming in.
Knew what they would do.
What they would say.
Where it would lead…

Said so, in fact.
Repeatedly.

But what do I know?

I’m now just a “nut-job.”
A “crank.”
Just another ‘crazy’, ‘disturbed’ NOBODY.

It was bad enough when they ignored my pain when they *knew* it was real…
Now no living person will ever believe
Another word I say.

Or write.

Ever.

I have actually allowed these bastridges to fully dismiss me.
Ridicule me. Ignore me.

Now not only has their lack of compassionate or ethical treatment made my life a living hell,
Now no other living soul will *EVER* not doubt a single word I say.

So I should probably just stop talking altogether.

Wouldn’t want us “Crazies” to offend the “Normal Folks”!

This was a mistake.

One I will pay for every second I survive…

However long or short that may be.

Too much “drama”?
Too “extreme”?

Perhaps if you haven’t *lived* this kind of torture…
This agonizing, soul mutilating anguish…
This *level* of agony…

Still “worried what others will think?”
Still concerned this stuff is “too raw?”

Yep.
You’re right. It *is*….
Reality is often that way, unfortunately.

But what do I know, right?
I’m just another “crazy”….

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~ by daveprime on November 21, 2012.

10 Responses to “A (censored for your safety) Letter from the Looney Bin…”

  1. You’re not crazy…, those who judge us don’t know. Keep writing. Think of you, no one else, except those u love.
    It always feels better when u tell someone to fuck off…pick one of those plastic smiled nurses at random!

  2. As the child of a woman who GLADLY spent most of her life in a mental ward, I know how it is there from visits. It’s not a happy place, and not all of us will turn our backs on you. There are some who go there to repair and it helps them, and there are some doctors and nurses who genuinely care about the people they are in charge of. Find those people, and keep them close to you.

    • I found that to be *very* true Carmen. There were several staff there that seemed to truly care. And hopefully they *can* help. ❤

  3. Dave, no words can express what I’m thinking, so *hugs*. You know what that means. I hear you. xx Sending you love.

  4. hey Dave I do know all to well about the pain you’re speaking about and the little that can be done about it right now in our country.I also know the walls of where you are now.Maybe a different location than the several places I’ve stayed but know them all the same.It helped me to talk about my journey and justify my despair while I had my moments there.My breaking points were ironically brought on by the meds the head doctors gave me.I have paradoxical reactions to them and instead of taking me off the meds they gave me more.Almost killed me 5 times and was later told how the actions of these people who were supposed to be helping were actually criminal.I don’t even remember those days because of the amnesia that was brought on by my bodies reaction to mood stablizers.I want you to know that my retreat from you wasn’t because I didn’t care but because I do and care and I didn’t think I could bear seeing the act you were threatening.I can’t handle stuff like that.So I just want to say that I feel blessed that you’re still around and hope to keep in touch now that I’m no longer afraid of what I might see during my visit.Take care this holiday season and keep your blessings close:)

    • Megan, I understand what I have said being too painful to be near. Truly.
      I watched helplessly as my first wife who had suffered some truly horrendous abuse as a child and young woman, hit a point in her treatment that she just could not get past. From that point on I got to see her as the doctors tried medication after medication to try and help her do so. The woman I married was like Donna Reid, or Cinderella; soft, gentle, kind, and caring. By the time the meds and doctors were done with her, she became the antithesis of everything I loved and cared for. The polar opposite almost. It was a truly terrifying and terrible experience for her, myself, and our children.

      So i am all too familiar with how psych centers work, from the ‘outside’ anyhow.

      I am just faced with a terrible dilemma. just *what* am I going to have to do to get them to treat me?

      I never meant to endanger or trouble the groups I am a part of nor the warm, caring, but above all *SAFE* place (like that at Pain Survivors) that we have all created there. That *should* remain a warm and caring place. Always.

      And I already plan to *not* share any more of those kind of thoughts there. There are several other places that are “closed” to the general public, and where such things can be discussed.

      I have agreed to give the folks (the good ones there at least,)a little time to try and help me find aid.
      But frankly, I just do not have much energy left to fight my own battle…
      I know you, and many others, are facing an uphill battle every day as well.
      The *LAST* thing I want to do is add to your burden(s).

      And I am *ALL FOR* continuing to chat back and forth outside of those groups.
      *hugs*

  5. Dave… I have been in the same kind of room you are in and screamed for meds to make the pain go away on deaf ears (they told me that the stuff they gave me was “supposed to make me sleep better and should have been strong enough for a man my size” but it never had any effect and I eventually cried myself into a nightmarish warped agony to be endured until exhaustion eventually took over… I even considered jumping off the bed onto my head to knock myself out if I could have somehow figured out how to bind my own hands such is the madness and desperation inside of those places) so I can totally relate to what you are talking about right now. I eventually LIED to the psych doctors telling them what they wanted to hear so that I could get the HELL out of there and back to the place where I could control my own destiny because those “mini prisons” have TOTAL control over your care and treatment INCLUDING HOW YOU FEEL (IE pain levels – emotional or physical) I pray that you are able to find some way to negotiate your release SOON. ((hugs)) man…

    ((NOTE: mine was PTS at the time, so no amount of medication was going to affect it anyhow))

    • I finally got out Wednesday, after 5 days of observation (like that of me breaking my right hand in front of the resident doctor when he told me i needed to “concentrate and talk to him” while I was trying to survive the hours of retching brought on by drinking as instant breakfast mixed in 3 or 4 ounces of milk. >.<

      Some, perhaps most of the nurses there were quite good and kind. Some, not so much.

      I think I scared them a bit when, after *not* waking me for my mid-might dose of minimal pain meds, I got a wee bit irritated and raised my voice a bit. At 4 am. Woke almost the entire ward. The psych doc (a real one.. this time) gave me 10cc's of Thorazine.. which just pissed me off and made me a stone-cold .. machine. An *angry* *Angry* machine.

      Then the head nurse brought me a choco bar (to smell.. since eating it at those pain levels was WAY out of the question) and a cup of premium Java from my favorite coffee place they just happened "to have laying around". *evil Grin*
      They had the *hardest* time believing that at 320 pounds, I just *couldn't* bring myself to eat anymore. The first few days my trays were *loaded* with food, even though I request *a* cup of coffee and *maybe* a little broth. A day. I finally explained it to them thusly:

      Imagine you haven't eaten in a week or two, and you are placed in front of an exquisite feast filled with all of you favorite foods. Everything looks and smells delicious. Then you are handed a fork… and told "For every bite you eat, we will break one or two of your bones." Followed by and "Enjoy now!"
      How many bites do you think *you* would choose to eat? o.o

      Yeah. After that they brought me a bit of cooked burger, a cup of chicken noodle veggie soup, and as many cups of *real* coffee as I could force down a day. (I sipped a few sips of broth, ate a cracker or two, and made a point of eating at least 2 or3 bites of burger. Per day.) And by *real* coffee, I mean with caffeine. *everything* served "on the ward" is caffeine free.

      So yeah. I've agreed to give them some time. They've agreed to try hard to get someone to actually see *AND* treat my pain.

  6. Yeah… Not a lot of “sanity” to be found in those places… and it seems that the doctors are some of the ones who are the ones “suffering” from the worst for the lack of it at times… … ((hugs))

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