The Story of A Proud Nut Case Subtitled -- The politics of insanity: A story of one woman's four involuntary psychiatric commitments (Story can be read on the Internet at: www.crosswinds.net/~vdgaines and www.geocities.com/vdgaines) You can e-mail me at: PROUDNut@aol.com, vdgaines@yahoo.com or vdgaines@crosswinds.net ******************************************************** My story is not a political tract, it is a personal tale, but in that all life is political, it is subtitled the politics of insanity. It is the story of psychiatry as part of the system of social control and as an arm of the police state. When my so-called loved ones could no longer influence my behavior, and I had broken no laws, the psychiatric system was used to have me locked up against my will. Politics as defined by Merrriam-Webster Online Main Entry: pol·i·tics Pronunciation: 'pä-l&-"tiks Function: noun plural but singular or plural in construction Etymology: Greek politika, from neuter plural of politikos political Date: circa 1529 1 a : the art or science of government b : the art or science concerned with guiding or influencing governmental policy c : the art or science concerned with winning and holding control over a government 2 : political actions, practices, or policies 3 a : political affairs or business; especially : competition between competing interest groups or individuals for power and leadership (as in a government) b : political life especially as a principal activity or profession c : political activities characterized by artful and often dishonest practices 4 : the political opinions or sympathies of a person 5 a : the total complex of relations between people living in society b : relations or conduct in a particular area of experience especially as seen or dealt with from a political point of view My story concentrates on definitions 3a and 3c; 5a and 5b; and though not explicitly stated, 1a and 4. ************************************************************** I apologize for how my story illogically and unchronologically unfolds and digresses. My original plan was to write a short e-mail to a "lunatic comrade" I read about on a website. As I began to tell my tale, my need for catharsis overtook me and my short e-mail became longer and longer, more detailed and more autobiographical. Suffering from TMJ where I can barely see, talk or breathe through my jaw (I feel like I am all mouth. Such a metaphor and fitting end for me!), I could barely edit or re-organize my thoughts. I apologize to anyone who has a genuine interest in my story. Bear with it, please. I do believe I have a few interesting and important things to say. Sorry I could not express myself better. ***************************************************** I was surfing the Net looking for sites like yours to make myself feel a little bit better about the enormous anger and trauma I still suffer from having been involuntarily incarcerated in nut houses four times and witnessing and experiencing such violence, lies and ugliness of "humanity" while there, and subsequently. I consider myself a free spirit who in order to make it in this world has learned to act "normal." I used to call myself a nut, but not that kind of nut, and have always identified with outcasts, so I did not take my first incarceration seriously. I was 36 years old (in 1988), a little old for a first manic episode you would think, but I was diagnosed as a manic-depressive nonetheless. I thought, ok, I'll be that, too. I did not realize then that once labeled a nut one is always a nut--only in remission--and that anybody could use that label and history against me, as my ex-boyfriend eventually did. I won't go into details about my first involuntary commitment, but will note that it involved work and family conflicts and cocaine use. If interested, click here to e-mail me. Antipsychiatry Links In 1996, eight years after my first incarceration, my ex-boyfriend physically restrained me to keep me from leaving him. Days later he called the cops, telling them I was a non-compliant mental patient who was refusing to take her medication. I had allegedly threatened him and was a threat to myself. According to him I had put my fist through a plate of glass, whereas in truth I had cut two fingers on already broken glass (neither of us knew how the glass broke) when I tried to shoo him away from cleaning it up saying it was in my area that I would clean up, just please go back up to bed and leave me alone. Not believing I was insane I had never taken "medication" once in those eight years as my ex-boyfriend was well aware. In reality my ex-boyfriend was a threat to himself and me. He was the nut case. Years earlier he often had said that he could not handle much stress and had little insight. Now he had screamed that he would kill himself or me if I didn't stop doing what I was doing. He had done violence to me, restraining and bruising me. Finally releasing me, he then said, "I'm sorry, that was not me." Is that not a classic case of a "nervous breakdown"? And he was right: the man who grabbed me was not him. That was why I was traumatized and confused. He had never before tried to stop me from leaving. Never before had he the courage to put his hands on me. Long ago we used to wrestle. He noticed then that I was quite fast, strong, effective and I never gave up. I had thought if a man ever molested me I would fight back, but I was so scared for him and confused I didn't know what to do. Why was I attempting to leave him? The immediate reason was because he was trying to keep me from going on a job interview claiming something was wrong with me. He believed that he was capable and had the right to determine that something was wrong with me. He kept telling me to trust him. I had learned better than that. What were my crimes of insanity, my symptoms of mania? Spending too much of my money, too quickly was one of them. My ex-boyfriend didn't know that I had saved over $7,000, mostly while living with him. I was spending less than half of it to start a new business. He assumed I was financially and emotionally dependent on him since he encouraged that position. He thought I didn't have the money to leave him. It wasn't until I stupidly announced that I had $7,000 and that I could indeed leave that he restrained me. The tightwad had become more and more miserly. He must have seen my money as his money. He couldn't wait to return everything I had bought once he had me hospitalized and proudly announce to me what he had accomplished. Taking over his space was another of my manic crimes. Although I was living with him I barely had any space of my own (the little I had in his bedroom for my personal belongings was begrudgingly given) and I had absolutely no say around his house (or in our relationship). I was living in a bachelor pad with boxing photos, horse race pictures and all his effects around the house. Now here I was in my insanity setting up a home office on his prized screened porch with just-bought office supplies, mostly organizers. I was "racing" to set everything up. This was mostly due to my attempts to appease my ex-boyfriend. My ex-boyfriend cannot tolerate much clutter; it makes him extremely nervous. I had zillions of boxes of supplies cluttering his porch. I was trying to open and place them as quickly as I could so he could relax, and perhaps stop intruding upon me so much, although it wasn't unusual for him to intrude upon me when I was doing activities which did not include him. My ex-boyfriend was terribly upset that I had taken over his porch. Although he had agreed to my using his porch (when I tearfully begged him after buying all the supplies), I think he immediately regretted his decision. I guess it is best to describe myself as a house guest who had overstepped her bounds. I had escaped from him and his bedroom and "intruded" onto his porch. I suppose this is why "being intrusive" was listed as part of my mental illness. His constant intruding into my business and space (the porch which he had said was mine to use), of course, was not seen as insanity. It was seen as his right. Almost all the supplies I bought were color-coded, stackable and movable. I would roll things over to me as I needed them or to test out the arrangement. Everything was fitting nicely on the porch--as I knew they would, for space management had become my major preoccupation over the previous seven months. I knew quite well what I was doing and was enjoying myself, seeing my plans develop even better than I had imagined. My first home office was going to be fantastic--my computer already here next to where I would sleep, the fax and phone would go there when I bought them, and the printer there--not a bad job! Seeing everything come together was, of course, upsetting my ex-boyfriend, especially since he had nastily told me the supplies would not fit, implying that I was some kind of nut to think they would. Incidentally, even the cop who took me away to the loony bin agreed with me when he replied to my question of how much space did he see on the porch to seeing "infinite" space. That's exactly what I saw, too--infinite space. Seeing my dream come true was, of course, making me even "higher" and more productive, thus alarming my ex-boyfriend even more. I had realized years earlier that he hated to see me happy or "too" excited unless it had to do with him. Shit, even if it had to do with him it made him nervous to be around that much energy and emotion. Not only was there space designed for work (including laptop, cork boards and meeting areas) but for living and pleasure also: a chaise lounge for working and sleeping (with five plush pillows!), a TV, music, books/library area, craft and/or study table, standing mirror, and beautiful candles and glassware all over the ledges. Everything could be assembled into almost limitless configurations for work, study or pleasure. At night it was serenely beautiful with the candles and incense burning. I looked forward to the dark of night, punctuated by the light of the moon, the stars and my candles, when I would sit back in relaxation and study/play with my candles. My ex-boyfriend saw me doing this (moving my candles to different positions on an elevated, mobile tray like on a chess board) and thought I was nuts but had to comment that there seemed to be "a method to my madness." There sure was. I was studying space with its different dimensions/planes as well as form in its many varieties/aspects, along with other practical and philosophical matters. The only "ugly" candle I was using was his and I was determined to understand why his candle was the only one which had melted into such an "ugly" form in my opinion. I was really enjoying studying light, form, space, existence, beauty vs. ugliness, etc., at night when my ex-boyfriend would eventually leave me alone, as well as doing my review of what I had learned that day, integrating it into my life and planning on accomplishing even more the next day. I was on a roll! Still getting "higher" and "happier" despite my ex-boyfriend's harassment. Unfortunately, I was stupid enough to think I was handling my ex-boyfriend fairly well, too: I had my hippie haven and sometimes he acted like he was comfortable enough with it. He had helped with the music, a wall lamp and the TV. And he was participating in an experiment with me. Not bad I thought, we'll get through this, too. I accomplished much in setting up the home office and other things, but I couldn't get far in understanding that "ugly" candle. I tried putting it in the midst of the other candles to aid my concentration, but it was so damned ugly it would ruin my mood and the atmosphere that I would be forced to move it out of sight. I found that quite strange and intriguing, along with trying to understand how my ex-boyfriend's ugly nature had managed to be "mirrored" in his candle. How do you like me using that psych term? Was that "appropriate"? My plans for my own business were in office automation and efficiency for small (one person) to medium-sized businesses, focusing on quality and productivity; everything at your finger-tips (when possible), and fun and easy to use. I take having fun, enjoying oneself, very seriously. I consider it a requirement for everything we do in life, including business. I'd been concentrating on learning PCs and productivity--file management, space management, time management, job throughput, what are the best tools and procedures for a particular job/environment/personality type and how best to document and use them since I had left regular employment at IBM in 1988. I'd been working towards the goal of my own business for the previous eight years, but it was supposedly considered reckless, "manic" and perhaps life-threatening by him and others when I finally committed myself by buying office supplies. I myself sensed envy rather than fear for my becoming destitute. There was a fear, perhaps--a fear of my becoming financially secure once more, and more "successful" than he and some of my other antagonists were. I was also planning a meeting for a job (part-time) interview to return to making near the money that I used to. This also infuriated my ex-boyfriend--especially with my plans to work when and where I wanted to, smarter and not harder. On my new job (if I got it) and in my new business I planned on implementing much of what I had learned about automation, quality and efficiency while using the Pareto 80/20 rule and the ABC's of having items that you need where and when you need them. I had become quite proficient at accomplishing jobs quickly and correctly the first time, while sitting back in my easy chair. Usually I just needed to plan properly (and document what was required for success) and then complete the right top two tasks and I was well on my way to completing the day's work. It was this job interview that my ex-boyfriend forcibly restrained me from keeping prior to having me involuntarily committed again. I am an African-American woman and my ex-boyfriend is an Italian-American. We had been together since 1973, off and on, mostly on. We usually maintained separate residences but in 1994 I moved in with him. Immediately he began treating me worse than he ever had. I assume now that he felt I was a helpless captive. I assumed then that he would eventually get over whatever his issues were. I didn't attempt to discuss his behavior with him since he refused to ever discuss any problems. We had muddled through many crises before so I was not perturbed. Plus I had given up trying to control events in our lives. I had learned to work on my own problems and to leave him alone to his. I carved my own little niche in his home and in his life and went about my business, able to maintain a positive and happy frame of mind. However, the emotional and verbal abuse, the racist and sexist comments/attitudes, the controlling behavior became more frequent and more intolerable. He once made the comment that if O. J. Simpson walked in the room he would shake his hand, in effect condoning what so many believe Simpson did. He had had the nerve to treat me with sneering disdain in bed--like I was some kind of dirty whore--that we hadn't had sex in months. I later learned that this was probably my punishment for talking about the computer once while we were having sex. And then again we had one HUGE unresolved racial issue where he could not acknowledge me to his extended family. I had told him 18 years earlier I did not care to meet these people. I didn't realize then that he would rather have them believe he was a homosexual than to admit he was with me, a Black woman. I now learned that I was expected to feel sorry for him that these relatives mistakenly thought he was a homosexual, having never married, talked about or brought a female to a family occasion. Oh, the injustice of it all, to be thought a homosexual, he implied. He started going around repeating loudly "what about me," "what about me" as if he were being deprived and no one cared about him. He accused me of never doing anything for him aside from buying a few special treats for him when I grocery shopped. He called me a baby and a tyrant. I immediately interpreted this as projection; there was no better way to describe him. He became even colder, stating that he wasn't going to "coddle" his daughter anymore. As I saw it, he had never coddled nor given a damn about his daughter who is half-Black and who he abandoned at birth and did not meet until, at my constant urging, she was sixteen and pregnant. She had hunted him down and wanted to meet him. I tried to convince him that it was the humane thing to do to meet her, even if he was not the father, which now 16 years later he was asserting. She needed somebody, I said. Was I ever sorry that I convinced him to meet her when I saw how he emotionally abused her at their first meeting. I felt responsible and guilty, a helpless witness to child abuse. But how could I protect her when I couldn't protect myself? He had a rationalization and/or denial for everything. He seemed to have absolutely no insight into his behavior and his effect upon others. And he always claimed that he was just a(n) (innocent) helpless product of his upbringing. There was nothing he could do about it. I had to learn to accept him for what he was. Concentrate on his good points, ignore and deny the negative ones. So here I was, watching this man develop into a more and more negative person. Everything was about "me," me," "me." And it was a "me" who had increasingly become a more disdainful, self-centered me. He acted as if he had no use for me except to be his willing, silent captive. I no longer felt compassion for him, only horror. I felt I had erred allowing our relationship and him to descend to this low. I felt driven by him to take a stand. Without me doing something differently, it could only get worse, never better. In fact, I strongly believed regardless of what I did he was only going to get worse. He had done minimal work on himself. Now his character was irrevocably set. I could not look forward to living a happy life, with him, under his rule, with him creating the environment, making all the decisions. I was determined to create my own life somewhere under his roof, if at all possible. First I decided to stop "coddling" him, just as he had threatened to stop coddling his daughter. He deserved a taste of his own medicine. I doubted the "tough" guy could take it. I wanted to give him a dose of reality and to show him my strong, capable, independent, no-nonsense self. He had never seen that side of me. I had always felt sorry for him. I knew he couldn't handle much--especially not much of the true me, full of so much honesty, intensity, energy and fortitude. I began by calmy, slowly and logically explaining to him what racism is and why he is a racist. I also asked him if he had treated me the same as he would have treated a white woman. There was no way he could answer yes. I told him I expected him to inform his relatives about me or I would be leaving in a number of months. He immediately refused to do this. Then I started talking about some of his immediate family members and their so-called love for him. I never before had spoken negatively about any of his family members. He sat there, rigid, as if in shock, finally quietly asking who had said and done what. I had not the heart to tell him the whole truth. And lastly I went on to start to get my life together by creating the kind of home I wanted to live in while within his house, beginning with creating a room of my own, and catering to my own needs rather than his. Was it the crime of hubris, of "grandiosity" or "delusions of grandeur" that I was guilty of? I "bragged" (most uncharacteristic of me at the time) about how I felt I could control my life and my destiny, and yes, maybe even become a millionaire, when my ex-boyfriend persistently questioned what I was doing as if I were some kind of retarded incompetent who had never accomplished anything in her life. He asked me what made me think I could do the job I was to interview for. Earlier he had kept taunting me that I would never return to my previous lifestyle (being Black, female, non-college educated and no longer a second-generation IBM'er with affirmative action on her side). I had done temp work off and on now for five years and saw how quickly I could learn and master all or most of the tasks required of me. Practically before his very eyes I had gone from making $4.25/hr. (clerk) to $13/hr. (Administrative Assistant) and was now going to ask the company I was working for for the $20/hr. which they were paying the temp agency for a position more matching my technical abilities and background. Before I took a buyout in 1988 I worked for IBM as a Staff Programmer Analyst making over $47,000 when I left. (See, I must have been nuts to walk away from that, huh? And all its security/benefits, too. That decision is part of the reason why I got locked up the first time.) I had been a project leader of a team designing a system to support 50,000 people. This company I was hoping to interview for a different position in had something like 9,000 people, if I recall correctly. I had been there over six-months (I think) and learned quite a lot about the organization and many of its systems' (computers, phones, etc.) deficiencies. I had become obsessed about fixing problems that affect work throughput and saw in this firm many areas where I felt I could help problem solve and implement new or enhanced systems. I saw opportunity and wanted to go for it, for myself and for the company. My plans were reasonable and well within my abilities. My ex-boyfriend couldn't even begin to comprehend my business plans or the Pareto 80/20 rule so they were just dismissed as evidence of my complete insanity. And forget about him seeing the infinite space that the cop and I saw. That was truly infinitely beyond him. What were my other crimes? Disturbing the peace, perhaps. I had yelled loudly to drive my ex-boyfriend away from harassing me. I thought he would run to leave me alone if he thought the neighbors could hear what I was saying about him and his family. I was in my haven, the screened porch, attempting to set boundaries when this occurred. Earlier I had told him if he could act nicely (and be happy) he could stay on the porch, but if he was going to continue to act like a miserable tyrant, I would prefer if he went to his section of the house. Stay here and be happy or please, go there to be miserable. Did he listen? No, he kept returning to harass me. So I started screaming about family issues knowing full well that the last thing he wanted was for the neighbors to know his business. Did this drive him away? Yes, it sure did--long enough to call for help to take me away to the loony bin. Attempting to set boundaries I suppose is not allowed for nuts. Especially when that nut never attempted to do so before. Talking too fast and too much was another of my crimes. I naturally talk fast, and when excited about something I talk even faster. When excited and interested in activities and ideas (for instance, business productivity) I can talk them all day and all night, too. My ex-boyfriend hated to hear or "talk shop" so I seldom did so with him. Early in our relationship he would deprecatingly call me a "chatterbox." So to please him, over the years I had tended to "chatter" less and less when around him, unless when I drank wine, and then I just didn't give a f**k about his feelings. One has to unwind every once and a while and tend to one's own needs, doesn't one? Now that I had been so gracious so as not to talk his ear off, my excessive talking (usually in response to his incessant questioning of me) was seen as a symptom of my mania. Moving too fast and too much was another of my crimes. I love to feel my body and my muscles and to get a good natural work out, so I push myself to walk fast with long strides and quite often to move fast to work up a good sweat. I love to sweat--cleans the pores. Besides, I was rushing around trying to complete my home office as quickly as possible to allay my ex-boyfriend's anxiety. Although my ex-boyfriend knew I had tremendous energy, I generally did not use it around him; it seemed to stress him so just to watch me. Therefore, I usually only worked like a "maniac" at work knowing my ex-boyfriend couldn't cope with much. I would wear myself out at work, I was a workaholic, and then lay up under him on the weekends. With and near him I had accomplished almost nothing in 23 years. Tired of living his life, I broke free like a "maniac." He was finally getting a big dose of reality, seeing the other side of me which he early on had trained me to suppress around him. Of course I am also a person who loves nothing more than sweet repose and contemplation, too. I don't always go at a manic pace. I do know how to relax and find balance in my life. I can sleep for hours; read for hours; do crossword puzzles, logic problems and other puzzles for hours; work at a computer for hours, etc. (At least I used to, before TMJ). I love to meditate--natural meditation where you merge with the object/thought, not where you repeat a mantra or something like that. I just relax, clear my mind and body and see what surfaces. Spontaneously setting up an experiment in an attempt to discover the cause of our communication and relationship problems while developing lesson plans for how to teach/learn anything quickly (using analogies) and communicate effectively were other insane acts I must plead guilty to. But, boy did I learn a lot about personality types, stressors and what breaks down the lines of communication! Now I call a certain type of person, like my ex-boyfriend, a "one-unit-of-data" type. I documented some of my experiment and the days' events, too, which I consider some feat considering the circumstances of my trauma, all the activities I was involved in, and my ex-boyfriend's ranting insanity. I surely did have presence of mind in my so-called insane state. My ex-boyfriend said whatever I did during my experiment sure was "dangerous." It helped to complete the job of reducing him to a raving lunatic. He had no idea that all I was doing was determining how many and what particular stressors caused our line(s) of communication to break down. I was actually trying not to stress him, reducing our communication to written form, but it was too late, still too much stress for a man who was already on overload. Yes, I was guilty of trying to lead instead of following. Oh, and supposedly I wasn't sleeping or eating, either. Well, I was sleeping, not much, but enough. Besides the fact that unlike him and many others I can function quite well on little sleep. I was getting as much sleep as the circumstances and my ex-boyfriend allowed me. How could I sleep when he kept intruding upon me insisting that I "get up in that bed," "get up in that bed" rather than allow me to sleep peacefully in my little hippie haven I had created for myself with beautiful surroundings (screened in porch in the country), sweet music, pretty candles, books and good thoughts. I was in my heaven and he wanted me to return to his hell. No way! I was eating too, although not when or as much as my ex-boyfriend liked to see me eat. I had always been a "poor" eater until I met him. He had taught me the "Italian" way to eat. He would even prepare my plate. With him I learned to eat more healthfully (more vegetables, meatless meals, etc.), but I also had to eat on schedule and larger portions than I actually cared for or needed. I was glad to get back to a little more of my former habit of eating when I was hungry and smaller portions. That was one of the perks of getting away from under him that I was extrememly grateful for. I was also accused of being a substance abuser and an alcoholic. I deny being an alcoholic. I generally drank a glass of wine with a meal a few times a week at most. I felt it aided my digestion so I could get down more of that food my ex-boyfriend liked to see me eat. Some nights I would drink a glass of wine as I smoked cigarettes to keep my throat moist. The cigarettes tended to make my throat dry. I never got inebriated. Hardly excessive or out of control drinking by any standards. I plead guilty to being a pot head at that time. Marijuana was my drug of choice. Getting angry when thwarted should definitely be added as out of character and "insane." And in conclusion, doing the things that I wanted to do, instead of catering to my ex-boyfriend's desires, was definitely an insanely criminal idea. Perhaps it was my most serious offense. This was way too much activity, emotion and change for a man who can do only one thing at a time and who can't handle much stimuli. Blinking Christmas tree lights can overwhelm him! As I see it these were my crimes, my manic insanity: asserting my individuality, my space and independence--too quickly, too emphatically--and even attempting to leave if I did not get my way. In his mind, all of this came out of nowhere. In my mind, it was the last leg of a 23-year journey to solve a puzzle in which the final piece had finally fallen into place. I now understood and saw through him. I had had enough. The person who very seldom said "no" finally said "no" and acted "no" too clearly. And God forbid, I was way too happy about it all, too. I was no longer emotionally manipulated into feeling sorry for him. Being too happy, like being too productive, I found is also an illness. It is not a spiritual reward for hard work and suffering, as I surmised. Believe it or not I am still happy (about who I am) and yet at the same time I am angry and traumatized. Sure enough, the man fell apart, right before my eyes. Yelling and ranting. Overreacting. Threatening and panicking. Regressing to the behavior of a three year old. It was a sorry, frightening sight. I couldn't leave. I felt responsible. I never expected this. My ex-boyfriend, who had always been rigidly overly controlled, was now acting like a "nut" as a result of my changed attitude and behavior, and yet, he was still trying to hang in there with me. That was another surprise. He never knew what hit him. Still to this day he doesn't know what happened, what he said or what he did. Nor does he know or understand what I did and why I did it. He could never comprehend me nor my actions. I am so far beyond him that he early on reduced me to a "weirdo." He still is in denial, needing to believe that I am/was nuts, saying that it could happen to anyone. Yes, it surely can happen to anyone--it happened to him! I saw it happen, although he has no memory of it and will deny it. My ex-boyfriend first called my father and then he called the cops after I began screaming to drive him away when he once again began to harass me about my activities. When the cops arrived I'm sure they saw what they thought was a nut case. They had been forewarned I later learned. And here I was, a traumatized, shocked and confused woman who ran to the cop for safety and then finally let all my emotions out. I had been afraid to move after having had both my ex-boyfriend and my father put their hands on me. Now, I was crying hysterically, in disbelief that it had come to this. The cop's report described me as "distraught." I had no idea what lies had been told about me. I was sure that once I got to the hospital and showed the evidence of physical abuse (I had bruises on my wrist where my ex-boyfriend had restrained me) that my ex-boyfriend would finally be called into the nut house with me and maybe we would resolve some issues. God, was I a naive fool! The hospital, instead of ending my trauma, compounded it, exponentially. Knowing about the law regarding three days for observation, I spent the first three days trying to be reasonable, although I was still traumatized and overly emotional. I didn't realize then that being "distraught" and overly-emotional, considering the circumstances, was still viewed as mental illness. I showed the bruises on my wrist but no one gave a damn about the violence done to me. That's if they even believed that it was not self-inflicted. I asked for a meeting with my ex-boyfriend; this was denied. No one ever told me what I was accused of doing so I could not deny any accusations. I was supposed to just cop to having done "it" or I was suffering from "denial." I felt like I was in Kafka's "The Trial." Everything I said was discounted. Everything I was was denigrated. My ex-boyfriend and my family members' lies were taken as truth and my truths were taken as lies or delusions or hallucinations and symptoms of my insanity. All my strengths--enormous energy, confidence, intelligence, speed of thought and movement, attention to detail (I had been a programmer), ability to anticipate what people will say, etc.,--were taken as evidence of my manic-depressive disease. The angrier I got about being discredited and mistreated the more I was deemed insane and "labile." The more I expressed my spiritual beliefs (e.g., goodness triumphing over evil) the more I was diagnosed as manic, delusional, hallucinating and schizo-affective. I admitted to having an inner voice/witness/conscience that I listen to so I suffer from auditory hallucinations according to my mother and the psychiatrists, I later learned. The more I defended myself, my intelligence, my abilities and my accomplishments, the more I was deemed grandiose and incapable of taking care of myself. I didn't learn of the lying allegations, including those of violence and threats, until I read my hospital records just prior to going to court to contest my involuntary commitment. A scrape on the outside of my hand (caused by scraping against office supplies as I was distracted by thinking about my ex-boyfriend) was documented as an "abrasion" as proof of having put my fist through a plate of glass. It was written that I was a threat to my ex-boyfriend, that I had been hospitalized three or four times before, although this was now only my second hospitalization. The report even called me psychotic, said I would deteriorate, be unable to hold a job or care for myself if not treated. I sat there mesmerized by what people had written about me, unable to believe this could happen, in America, supposedly the land of the free. After the 72 hours, I began to "demand" my constitutional rights, to meet my accusers including my ex-boyfriend, and to participate fully in my "treatment" plan. Of course, I was denied. I started to act like a "maniac," initiating a routine of circling the nurses' station, screaming and yelling, "Let me go home. Let me go home," deliberately attempting to stress them out, using all the stressors I had discovered during my experiment. I would do this and then go back to my room and laugh about the spectacle I must have been creating. Staff put me on hourly room restriction in response to this. I called the Patient Advocate several times, once complaining about the psychiatrist whom I did not care for, and had requested a change and, of course, been ignored/denied. Was it not my right to request someone I felt I could work with, someone who did not disrespect me? She agreed that it was, but I never was assigned to a different psychiatrist. I then called for representation by one of the free county lawyers. I realized I would have to go to court if I hoped to get out of there. All of this I had to do on my free time out of my room for I was still on room restriction so I would not be overly stimulated according to hospital records. They put in my medical reports that it was feared that I would end up on welfare, yet I handle money better than anyone in my family. I have not worked a regular job since 1988 and never had any debt until I was billed for these involuntary incarcerations which I refuse to pay or apply to Medicare (or is it Medicaid?) so that these middle-class white men can rob the American people even more. I haven't worked regularly since 1988 (12 years)--by choice. I paid cash (around $12,000) for my car in 1986 which I still own. I had lots of stock, savings and retirement money. I have been living off my retirement money since I became disabled with TMJ (in 1998) right before my last hospitalization. Just now are my funds running out. Off and on I would work temp work to supplement my savings. The only time I did not live fully off my own income were the three years I lived rent free with my ex-boyfriend. I don't believe in debt nor dependency. I believe in self-reliance and that the most responsible thing anyone can do in this world is to try to fully carry one's own weight and then to help those who cannot. I feel that one of the worst things one can do is to encourage dependency in others, to do for them what they can do for themselves. Teach them, help them and then let them do for themselves, otherwise you are a thief and a destroyer of someone's potential for one's own self-satisfaction. I am a self-reliant, critical, exacting, independent soul who my ex-boyfriend once asked why I had to be so honest (and the irony now is that I am documented to be the lying nut case and he is considered the honest one). I don't give a f**k who likes me and who does not (although I try to be gracious to all, I am not dependent on others thinking well of me). I try my best not to be dependent on anyone. I had once again begun to have job conflicts. My ex-boyfriend was quite upset that I dared to stand up to "authority" figures (and others who thought they were authorities over me) and had been fired from a previous temp job. I considered that firing my "badge of honor." I am a hard worker who also has self-respect and courage. I am used to being treated as a professional, as I was my 13 years at IBM. On this temp job I felt I was being jerked around and treated like someones's house wife, yet I, for weeks, contained myself and tried harder to please, be more ingratiating and to get more work done. It was damn near impossible to be productive considering the environment so I spent much of my time trying to develop systems to become productive including templates, filing systems, and contact lists. Eventually, I spoke up too loudly (my voice tends to rise when I get excited) and emphatically in defense of myself, explaining why "I was not doing what I was supposed to do" (like kiss the man's ass enough?--even though I had seven other people to support). I went through the list of all the things I was doing and had yet to do, some which I had not been trained for. The man retorted that all he knew is that he used to go to either of two desks and get his work done. Forget that they now had me, one lowly temp, who didn't know the company and its procedures, now trying to do the work of those two regular employees. Talk about ignorant idiocy! Consequently, I was fired. I considered it more their loss than mine, although I lost the opportunity to learn to support eight people in a most difficult environment. I had now been on this current job for some six months. Just recently I had started having problems with a co-worker. She had just been hired from temp to permanent. She began acting as if she were my boss (she was Administrative Assistant to the Vice President), confronting me everyday about something or other, asking one time whether my loyalty was to the company or elsewhere. I told her my loyalty was to the truth. I had been interviewing people to take over my position and she was upset that I had told one interviewee about some of the problems there. These were problems that I hoped the person would take on and fix, although technically that was not in the job description. I later spoke to my manager about this. She said it was quite all right to have discussed these problems. My ex-boyfriend was worried that I would be fired from this current job because I was upsetting and standing up to this co-worker who now was trying to boss me. He was nastily warning me to "keep my place" (can't recall his exact words.) I felt I had the financial security to do as I thought was right. And besides, I didn't report to this co-worker, who was she to boss me? She had also admitted that she had other issues bothering her, it was not all me; she liked me, she just didn't like my style. I was a workaholic who likes everything documented (she called me Type A) she, like most others at the company, was laid back. She hated having paper around and my requests for certain information when I had to cover her desk. This department could go all day without copier paper without a peep from anybody. This happened three times while I was there. I saw no reason for this. I liked to get my work done on a timely basis. This is one of the problems I had documented, offered to help fix and discussed with people I interviewed. Management had told me I could work on this and other issues I saw. My plans were to eventually be my own boss so that I would not have to deal with such nonsense from power-hungry, insecure people like this co-worker. All I have ever wanted to do was to go to work and do a job well. I can't stand the politics. I can play them for a while, when I have to, but I'd rather not. That's also partly why I left IBM: I'd had enough of the politicking. This co-worker eventually did get me fired, once I was hospitalized and didn't make it to work. It was to be the last week of my assignment. After I was restrained, I called her to say I could not make the interview with the Vice President, her boss, and my ex-boyfriend and I were having personal problems so I wouldn't be in at all that day. She immediately caught on that violence might be involved and asked if she needed to send help. I replied no, that I thought I had everything under control, just reschedule my interview and please fax me some information on personality types. This she did. (This information proved extremely useful in helping me make sense of my conflicts with her and my ex-boyfriend and in interpreting the results of my experiment.) Months later while "bragging" about how she had helped me to learn more about conflict management in a matter of months than I had learned in years, trying to give my ex-boyfriend a few digs, I was told by him that she was the one who had gotten me fired. I believe he thought I must have sounded "nuts" when I called in; he didn't know that she had offered to send help thinking I might be a victim of domestic abuse. Elsewhere (can't recall where now) I was told that she used the excuse that she feared there might be violence on the job if I returned to work. Certainly she didn't fear violence from me who had never even raised my voice to her, that is unless she is completely nuts, too. It's not often, if ever, that you hear about a woman going back to a job and shooting the place up, but you do hear about men coming to a workplace looking to do violence to their significant other. Due to my angry, loud contentiousness and refusal to back down from attempting to secure my human rights, I was eventually physically restrained and shot up with Haldol. I could barely move for almost two days! I had to will and push each thigh muscle to react and move just to be able to walk. What an effort it was to pick up each leg and shuffle forward barely at a snail's pace. I felt like I had been injected with some kind of horse tranquilizer. They taught me well how to behave in a nut house. It's a lesson I will carry with me for the rest of my life. After the Haldol assault I learned real fast to keep my voice down or my mouth shut around people like this "mad" psychiatrist. I was in terror: scared for my life and sanity. When I went to court to fight involuntary confinement I found that I was accused of attempting to assault the psychiatrist (and other staff members) who had had me Haldol'd. I had run past the mother f**king psychiatrist attempting to reach the phone to call the Patient Advocate upon seeing burly guards the psych had called when I told him I considered Karen Horney's philosophy--I quoted from one of her books which I had with me--more to my liking. No, actually, the last thing I said to him was in response to his question of why I had left IBM. I flippantly replied, "Because of people like you." (He was a racist, sexist, classist, arrogant son-of-a-bitch but truthfully, the "isms" were only part of the reason I left IBM. The main issues were being able to do quality work and the atmosphere of fear and oppression which was becoming rampant. It was no longer the company I once knew. It was time to jump a sinking ship as I called it. I tried to effect change. When I realized I couldn't, I was ready to move on with no hard feelings. I felt that IBM had trained me well and that I could succeed elsewhere, but perhaps, I needed to become my own boss. I liked the idea of having complete responsibility for a project: completing a job to my standards and satisfaction.) I saw contempt on this psychiatrist's face when during our first interview I told him I was a high school graduate. That was the beginning of the end for us. I had seen that look of contempt too often on my ex-boyfriend's face not to recognize it. (Yes, I was being hyper-vigilant.) For years, I was baffled by it. I didn't know what to call it or what it meant. It was not until I watched a program where this man was studying couples' interactions to determine which ones would likely stay together did I learn its name. One couple reminded me so much of my ex-boyfriend and me. The look the man continually gave his future wife was described as contempt. According to this researcher, its expression did not bode well for the future of their relationship. To try to make the story short(er), I went to court and lost. My mother and ex-boyfriend testified against me. I never presented my side. I was not coached by my appointed lawyer. I was extremely emotional (understandable you would think). I kept my mouth shut but was using extreme body language to agree and disagree with what was said and done. The psychiatrist immediately began with his lie of my attempt to assault him. I was in utter shock and overreacted with body language. From there it went downhill. Eventually, when my ex-boyfriend was about to talk, I looked at his pitiful face and began to cry. Earlier I had told the judge that I had been under extreme duress. Now, I had had enough and asked to be excused. I left the room and was never informed of what occurred in my absence. I didn't realize I had lost (after all didn't I keep my manic mouth shut?) because of my emotional behavior and the way the system operates. From this experience I learned not to use the county's free lawyer who did nothing for me except to tell me he liked my psychiatrist. In fairness I must say at the court hearing at my next incarceration at another hospital in a different county the female lawyer I was given was stupendous. The first thing she told me was that the psychiatrist would lie. But I took no chances, I also hired a lawyer. I had two representatives. Loved them both. My paid lawyer became like a father figure and a personal friend concerned about my welfare. When I was told that I had lost in court and was now legally committed and would have to take psych drugs I was so shocked I think they had to forcibly inject me once again. This time I knew what Haldol was like, didn't panick and fought it off better. I also think they gave me less realizing they had overdrugged me the first time. From then on I more than cooperated. I kissed ass and got the hell out of there as soon as I could. They had put me on three drugs: Depakote, Ativan and Haldol. I was able to persuade the psychiatrist to reduce the dosages when I could barely stay awake during group meetings. I was determined to get off those debilitating "meds" before they had a chance to permanently affect me. It took me something like 11 days after my court fiasco to work my way out of the hospital. You should have seen me suck up to that contemptible ass hole of a psychiatrist! I said all the right things to my ex-boyfriend, even agreeing not to smoke pot or drink wine when I returned to his home. On this I knew I would renege once I was free considering my agreement coerced and made under extreme duress. When he warned me I would never get out if I didn't change my behavior towards my mother I sucked up to her sick ass, too. When she came with flowers I ran around to the staff telling them how beautiful they were. I diligently answered her questions to her satisfaction and coolly stood there as she paraded around like some kind of supercilious queen: That's when I got to see Karen Horney's "vindictive triumph" in operation. The woman was positively beaming in her power over me, head all propped up the air, jaw jutting out, strutting around the ward talking about wasn't it nice there. Absolutely sickening to witness. But I could take it. She was my last roadblock and I knew what I had to do to secure my freedom. I have always been a loner and allowed myself to express myself fully when I am alone. I have had much contact with myself(s). I love solitude. I can also be quite intense in concentration and effort. I quite often used to act like a "nut" talking "crazily" to myself, thinking about all kinds of outlandish ideas, dancing and working myself into a frenzy. Like a whirling dervish you might say. I took naturally to Yoga, Buddhism, and meditation. In fact, I catch on to most things rather quickly (except mechanics). I read fast, move fast, talk fast and think fast. Once I get into a state of total immersion I can do an activity almost endlessly, almost effortlessly, as if I become one with it. I can usually enter that state/zone quite easily with almost any activity, if I so desire, which means I can get "high" naturally, and quite easily, doing any activity. Although I no longer have true down periods, I have let myself cry things out and gone deeper and deeper into the blues until I have come out on the other side (music is especially good for this), feeling happy and optimistic again. Walking is good for this, too, to clear the body and the mind. I used to love to walk. I have let myself react naturally to negative experiences as my body/mind/soul see fit and seen myself return to an equilibrium when the issue has been resolved within my total self. I have no fear of where my body, mind, soul or spirit might take me. I have never had any fear of going inside, insane or of losing control. Whenever I have been called "nuts" I knew exactly where I was, why I was there, and how I got there. I knew how "high" I was and could have brought myself down to "normalcy," if I had so desired or had realized the consequences of not doing so would be forced incarceration and psychotropic drugs. I realized early that I could never be "normal," had little desire to be "normal," and so I went on a search for the TRUE ME. I have never wavered from that search. I didn't realize until my hospitalizations that it was a crime of insanity to be euphoric or ecstatic or too happy or too productive or too philosophical or too whimsical or too speculative or too non-conformist or too this, too that, or too just about anything too different. I felt, and still feel, that it is my inalienable right to be who I am, so I refused to comply with those who had the power to incarcerate me and keep me incarcerated. I thought we all had the inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. So I pursued happiness, found happiness, and then was deemed insane for it! What a crazy world we have created! My behavior might have appeared "bizarre" (as my lawyer friend once described it), but what my ex-boyfriend didn't and can't understand (and I guess many other people can't either), is that some people, like me, can live through their emotions and "crazy" ideas and come out on the other side. They can appear to lose "total control" and yet they do not. They can ride with their emotions and "kooky" ideas, give them full expression, knowing that they will never lose contact with their true selves or need something external to bring them back to themselves. They have no fear of themselves, only a most ardent desire to discover their TRUE SELF and how can that come about except by searching for the SELF, being and becoming the TRUE SELF in all of its manifestations? They understand that one must let be and have faith in the SELF, that all make's good sense. Perhaps a crazy sense, but sense, nonetheless. People like me have a well-grounded faith in SELF. We know who we are. All our lives we have been our own best friend. My documentation is one reason I more strongly believe in my version (and memory) of events than in anybody else's. But, I have also learned that because I spent years paying attention to details in order to document them properly (and I always thought I had a bad memory so I wrote things down), that my powers of observation and my memory are better than most. Writing things down definitely aids memory. My father later admitted that he was mistaken in how he described my behavior. He originally claimed that he was concerned because I wasn't acting right, smoking pot and defiantly arguing with him about it when he entered my ex-boyfriend's porch. I know that this was a complete "delusion" on his part. (I don't know what made him so eager to come over there and lock me up although I have my theories. I had been acting "high," and inspired and talking fast in days prior while around him but there was something else that I saw going on between us that had nothing to do with my "manic" activities and had more to do with my abilities and plans.) My father didn't say even one word to me before he accosted me. He just entered the porch, rushed and put his hands on me in his attempt to force me up from my chair to take me somewhere to get drugged. He didn't say one damn word to me! He never asked me what was going on. I sat there refusing to budge, terrified of these two men's violence, looking over my father's shoulders, remembering how my ex-boyfriend had just recently put his hands on me, using my eyes to plead with him to get the "maniac" to take his hands off me. My ex-boyfriend looked upset and did ask my father to let me go, which he then did. I sat there petrified to move, afraid that either one of those nuts might misinterpret any movement I made and assault me again. I know that it was enough of a downer when my ex-boyfriend came into my space for me to have put my pot away. In fact, because of how he was acting I had dropped my pipe and the bag of pot on the floor around the chair I was sitting in when he once again intruded on me demanding to know why I was not sleeping. The pipe and the pot were still there on the floor when the cop arrived. Why was I not sleeping? I was just then attempting to go to sleep when he so rudely interrupted me. I liked then to get a good head before I went to sleep--aided sweet dreams, I thought, although I never remembered these sweet dreams, I just felt so good, so refreshed when I awoke, like I must have gone to heaven. So at night, after I had completed all my tasks, the last thing I would do was to light up. I liked to be in a good mood and in a good environment to get high. I would hardly have lit up with my ex-boyfriend there acting as he was or with my father there. There was no way that I was smoking pot when my father arrived or began to smoke it after his arrival. This was a fabrication my father made up (or probably actually hallucinated) for validating his eagerness to put his hands on me and lock me away. My ex-boyfriend originally admitted to wrongly putting his hands on me when he said "sorry that was not me." Later, he had a much different memory of when it happened and a trivializing of the trauma he had caused me. All was done supposedly for my benefit, there was no malice on his part. However, several years later my ex-boyfriend did finally apologize in a letter for the meanness (I'm not sure if that is the exact word he used) he showed me and told me he was suffering for his attitude. I could go on and on, but I'm sure you know my story. After my release, I started doing research: I quickly learned my experience was typical. I also realized I did everything to feed into their diagnosis (including ranting and raving in an attempt to stress them out like they were stressing me out, using every stressor I had discovered during my experiment). But that was immaterial. My main problem, as I saw it, was that I had been powerless. I was also "different" and a non-conformist, but having power could have equalized these negatives. My ex-boyfriend had easily gotten all my family members to side with him for various reasons. Naively, I had thought the hospital would quickly get rid of me because I had no insurance (and was being a pain in the ass) for I had seen this during my first incarceration. My first incarceration I was working for IBM and had Blue Cross/Blue Shield so they gladly let me stay for three months without psychotropic drug treatment. It was a private hospital for middle-class and upper-class people, nowhere near as violent as the public hospitals, but I did see violence and inadequate treatment there, too. I eventually copped to cocaine addiction (pure lie) and kissed the head honcho's ass to work my way out of there. (I was a pot head, but I've even had to give that up due to TMJ). I got locked up twice more within the next few years. I was traumatized by how I was treated by my ex-boyfriend, my family, in the hospital and in court. I sent away for my medical records and was shocked and appalled at the lies these people had told about me. Especially those about my alleged violence. I have always been a proponent of non-violence, even disliking to raise my voice in anger, considering that violence. Now I am a certified violent delusional psychotic (you know, like the ones you read about in the paper or hear about on TV) thanks to these people. I was livid and eager to expose the System. I was determined to somehow turn this around and use this horror to my advantage. I was going to end up on top, reclaim my honor and integrity, my good name and my future. As it stood now, these people owned me; they could accuse me of anything, including violence, and have me committed again. They could do violence to me and I would be too afraid to defend myself for I was the one with the recorded violent history. If I got "too happy," "too excited," "too productive," (or successful) "too non-compliant" they could have me committed. What could I say? I would never be believed. No, I must go to court and end this travesty I thought. I was determined to find a lawyer and take all their lying conniving asses to court. Everyone was angry at me about my attitude and my desire to sue. They thought me a fool for thinking I could do it. They all knew how corrupt the world is and how hard it is to fight the System. They wanted me to just forget about it all. My refusal to not be angry and to not forget was just more evidence of my angry manic-depressive illness. Unfortunately I had been discharged (on psych drugs) to my ex-boyfriend's house. His house was my quickest and easiest escape from the nut house. I had in the prior few years moved back to New York after having lived five years in Phoenix, Arizona. I had let my ex-boyfriend convince me that he had changed. I agreed to move in with him and had sold all my furniture. I had also spent down a lot of my non-retirement savings and had just recently begun replenishing them. Being too vocal and too angry about my case got me locked up, but this time I was adding more spiritual talk to my daily conversations. This frightened people even more. I had recently had several psychic experiences which I could not ignore. Princess Di died around this time and I was really moved by her death. I was crying everyday, but it was a potent spiritual crying, for her, for me, for the world. Everyday it was like I was reaching a new spiritual high through my tears. I was reading a lot, including books on spiritual matters (e.g., Gnosticism, astrology, Bhagavad Gita, Sufism, Koran, Bible, and adolescent poetry I had written) and taking these things more seriously once again in my life. I was on a spiritual high still, getting more and more into the myths and stories, alarming people around me. My ex-boyfriend had once said to me, "What do you think you are, a saint?" and the more I thought about that question, the amount of suffering I had done to live up to my spiritual beliefs and what I felt had resulted in a spiritual revelation and this ongoing spiritual high, I was beginning to wonder. To me, to be a saint (i.e., person leading a religious or upright life) does not mean that one is perfect, but that one has paid for one's sins and been redeemed. I surely felt that that was true for me or why else would I have had such positive spiritual revelations? I had done my suffering for my beliefs. I had taken my spirituality seriously. I made mistakes and poor choices and willingly paid the consequences. I worked hard to be the person I felt I ought to be in the best of worlds. Why should I not have been rewarded for all my spiritual work? Why else was I still ecstatically happy and feeling like one with the world? Why else was this "divine" voice still with me? Something real was definitely going on. So I was having fun playing around with all these spiritual ideas about adepts, prophets, saints, reincarnation, and that voice that I now called my "crazy" divine voice. Definitely dangerous business! Especially to indulge in around the soulless, the non-believers and the spiritually dead! Even many who profess to believe, do not see, do not feel, do not comprehend. Everyday I would smoke my "sacred" weed (marijuana) under my "sacred" tree at the river front(divine water), while listening to divinely inspired music and my crazy "divine" voice marveling at the wonders of the universe and my life. I would do this only after I had accomplished my two tasks for the day to move my lawyer search forward. I was still doing a lot of reading about psychiatry, mental illness, deviance, racism, sexism, the mental health system, emotional and verbal abuse, etc. I would go to the library and take out 10 to 15 books at a time. Read five or six of them at a time. Oh, the easy life! No job, no ex-boyfriend hassling me, no troubles while there, just doing what I wanted to, when I wanted to do it, how I wanted to do it. This, too, infuriated my antagonists contributing to my reincarceration. How dare I be able to live such a life of ease. I should be forced to return to the real world, their world of necessity, ugliness and strife. That world which made them so miserable and miserable to be around. Not for me, if I could help it. With my mother knowing the local politicians and cops they actually came after me at the local hang out, the river front. I tried to escape and was hunted down like A DOG. I was badly bruised and beaten up from my escape attempt, having crawled through bushes and people's front lawns. My mother attempted to use these injuries as proof of how I tried to harm myself and therefore was a threat to myself. Forget the fact that the only reason I incurred these injuries was because I was threatened with involuntary commitment again by her. This was in September of 1997, a bit more than a year after my second involuntary commitment. Once I was in the psych ward I knew not to in any way suggest that I was violent. But I suppose because I had tried to escape the cops, on several occasions four or five burly staff members would escort me to and from medical facilities where I was housed for a while due to my injuries. They actually treated me at first as if there was a chance I might be allowed to leave, but after my mother's visit when I told her ass off again, I looked up and there were the burly guards waiting to take me back to the psych ward. This time I was smart: I paid a lawyer to contest my involuntary commitment. I also had the free County lawyer by my side. She was female, very nice and supportive of who I am and did not much discuss my alleged mania. She immediately informed me that the psychiatrist would lie, so I felt I could rely on her counsel. The paid lawyer was someone I had met several months earlier during my lawyer search. He had refused to take my case, but spent over an hour attempting to explain to me why. I was impressed by how he treated me and how well he handled my overwhelming energy. I felt that I would easily be able to understand and follow his directions. My two lawyers worked well as a team. When I informed my female lawyer that I had hired another lawyer the two of them conferred about my case without me being present. My paid lawyer was not even sure that he could meet with me before my court date. However, he did manage to get to see me the night before my court appearance. He coached me well (be "suave," he said) and helped me to understand that emotion and movement were taboo. I now knew for sure what game I had to play. Both lawyers were in court with me, but only my paid lawyer spoke. He early on established that my psychiatrist saw me two or three times for five or ten minutes at the most. He also immediately had had all my hospital records entered as pure hearsay. He then had me go to the stand and present my defense. I can't remember the questions he asked, but they were more or less along the lines for which I had been prepared. My answers were close to what he had coached me but more consistent with my personality. I had done my homework reviewing the questions and answers he had given me, adapting the answers to my liking. I was most worried about talking too fast, so I had spent most of my preparation time practicing speaking more slowly. I used the Bible for this, reading inspirational and consoling passages at as slow of a pace as I could manage, trying to get used to a slower rhythm. I managed to say to one of my lawyer's questions that I felt my antagonists believed they had acted in my best interests as he had coached me. I was amazed at how completely at ease I felt on the stand; no performance jitters at all. I was also surprised by how good my lawyer was. I didn't know then that he was a famous lawyer, Joel M. Aurnou. The hospital's lawyer then questioned me. I don't recall these questions, but I believe I had to further defend calling myself a genius and a prophet (part of my "delusional grandiosity." I used my "soul of a poet, mind of a scientist" defense (which I had read about while doing my research) and my early poetry and awards from work as proof. So what if I was only a high school graduate? I had taken all the advanced math courses through Calculus and all the advanced science courses through Physics. The judge admitted that programming was a scientific field. I was also questioned about the belief that pot was my "sacred" weed which put me into spiritual, contemplative states. My judge must have been a pothead because he questioned how the psychiatrist could know that this was not true for me. Shocked the shit out of my paid lawyer and me when I won and walked out of the psych ward the day of my court hearing. I had heard and had read that few win in court. My lawyer had doubted I could focus enough to do what needed to be done. He had kept repeating that it was all up to me. Now, he told me to go back to the hospital, get my things, and keep my mouth shut. I followed his orders, smiling quite a bit, but managing not to talk too much about being released. My ex-boyfriend had decided not to join my mother against me this time: He had had enough. She was of the mind that the only reason I walked was because she was not there to testify against me, although, of course, my hospital records were full of her lying allegations. Upon my release I had the same problem as I did the prior incarceration: nowhere safe or supportive to go. This time I could not return to my ex-boyfriend's so I ended up at my mother's. I knew this would make them all happy (ex-boyfriend, lawyer and family). And now they could still keep their eyes on me, the little pot head. I forgot to mention that my ex-boyfriend thought that my "psychosis" could have been related to my being a pothead, the drug that he had turned me on to, had since quit, and now demanded that I quit. (This is one of the reasons he gave for his reluctance to give me money, I would just spend it on pot.) I refused to quit, considering it a spiritual drug--a gateway to great, creative, contemplative states for me. My last incarceration was in April of 1998. It was due to my TMJ, and being at my mother's house, and, of course, still being angry and determined to sue everybody while continuing to lead the leisurely life I wanted to live. I hated living with my mother and knew that I could not stay there long. She was very angry that I had won in court. I knew that she would do all that she could to get me incarcerated again and would enjoy every chance she could to treat me condescendingly like a mental case. And, of course, I was still angry and searching for a lawyer while staying there. With all the tension and machinations in the air, I knew I had to do something, so I began a campaign to try to force her to get my ex-boyfriend to give me money so that I could re-establish my life. During my second incarceration the two of them had gone to court and testified against me. In a letter that he wrote while I was incarcerated he pleaded with me to take the drugs as soon as possible so that I could come back home because each day was costing me. I realized that the man was attempting to impoverish me if I did not do as he wanted. After my release, he said that he would help me re-establish myself by helping to pay for furniture and up to a year's rent. I felt he owed me this much as that he had conned me into moving in with him and selling all my furniture and encouraged me not to work full time while with him. But mostly I felt he owed me because when he restrained me and had me involuntarily committed he kept me from my temp job (from which I was fired during my incarceration) and possibly two job opportunities. I believe that both he and my mother wished to make me financially dependent (and consequently dependent on them and/or the system) by having to spend my savings on forced psychiatric incarcerations. I felt malice in both of their hearts as if they wanted to humiliate/humble me and to see me suffer if I would not be their "good little girl." There was in the air a desire for "vindictive triumph." Now that I was out of the hospital my ex-boyfriend refused to give me a dime. There was no way that I was going to start my life all over again financially because of what these people had done to me if I could help it. With my ex-boyfriend I considered it like a divorce/palimony case and I wanted my due. I felt that he had robbed me. So I began a campaign of yelling and acting out towards my mother, banging on walls and the refrigerator "get me my money!" "get me my money!" I was having a ball letting the dramatic actress express herself. I literally worked up a sweat a few times doing this. I was starting to feel like an Olympic athlete with the toll these histrionic yelling fits were taking on me. She would respond that she couldn't persuade him to give me any money. I would counter that if the two of them could work together to go to court against me they could work together to get me some money to move. (Later she told me, as well as my uncle did, that she didn't feel he owed me a dime and as far as his putting his hands on me, a Black man would have done worse. As I see it, I have a very sick, hateful, envious bitch of a mother whom I used to feel sorry for. I used to be her pet. Now I look upon her as evil personified). After yelling like a maniac I would return to my section of the house and crack up over how much fun it was and how good I was getting at playing the part of a nut. They said I was a nut, well I would play the nut to my advantage. Meanwhile, I told my newly found lawyer friend (who I was trying to persuade to take my case) that I was in BIG trouble. I knew I couldn't go on like this for too long. I knew they would find some way to get the best of me. I was in a dangerous place. I could "feel" the evil around me. I tried to spend most of my time away from the house, sometimes even sneaking back down to the river front past midnight. The river front had become my second home. When the bill collectors called I used the raving lunatic act on them, too. "Do you know who you're talking to?" "Do you know I'm a nut" "You're gonna tell me what I'm responsible for?" I would yell ferociously at them. Usually they would hang up the phone pretty quickly. Such delicious fun! Such a radical departure from my usual reasonable self. But where did being reasonable ever get me? Why shouldn't I act like the other nuts in the world who get away with it, I thought. Here these bill collectors called me, attempting to intimidate me, didn't know or care what the f**k I'd been through, trying to tell me what I was responsible for. I was tired of all the bull shit ignorant domineering people in the world and decided to let my crazy self do whatever she wanted like so many other people do. Plus my "crazy" divine voice was telling me it was time to learn how to be angry: show the wrath of God! These people had tried to destroy me, to kill my Soul. The anger was justified. The bill collectors deserved every decibel they got from me. I'm just sorry I couldn't have sent a few of them to be an involuntary patient in a psych ward, too. Maybe after that experience they wouldn't be so damn sure about services rendered and consent to treatment. I don't know if all this yelling contributed to my TMJ, but it is ironic that not too long after one vicious yelling episode where I screamed after my mother said "this has to end or one of us is going to die" I yelled and banged at her "I'm not going to die" (in the back of my mind I'm thinking reincarnation), "you are going to die" that I noticed that my teeth weren't meeting properly. I tried to fix it. I started pulling at things in my jaw and in my mouth. All of a sudden I felt my jaw drop. It was as if there was no support at all for my jaw. No one else was home at the time and I was dog sitting. I didn't know what to do with the dog so I waited for my mother's return. When she returned I ran to her and told her I needed to go to the emergency room, something was terribly wrong with my jaw. We went to the emergency room. No one could find anything wrong with my mouth. We went to an ENT. He couldn't find anything wrong with my jaw or mouth, either. Of course, he only cursorily looked at me as did the other "specialists" I consulted. Meanwhile, whenever I ate it was if I could not find the opening to my mouth. My teeth never met anymore. Everything was moving, dropping, turning around. When I told people this they scoffed at me and told me that I looked fine. Now I was seen as a real nut case and my mother saw her opportunity. One day I felt like my mouth was filling with fluid and ran to my mother to take me to the emergency room again. This time they took X-rays. Again they saw nothing wrong, but they also spoke to my mother who of course told them I was a nut case. When we had visited other doctors she had always rushed to tell them I was a nut. They were all quick to say it was in my mind when they could find nothing wrong. Meanwhile, I, the person who had always been intimately in touch with her body knew something was seriously wrong. At the emergency room, they told me if I returned again they would send me to the psych ward. Not too long after I had another particularly painful and frightful night, and despite all my fears of being locked up again, I called 911 and was taken to the emergency room. A doctor did a cursory look at my mouth and then called the crisis team. I was interviewed by them and I noticed that my mother had arrived. The crisis team heard my story where I was again Miss Honesty and told about all my hospitalizations and what I believed were the reasons for them in my usual fast, expressive and detailed style and, of course, was deemed insane again. However, to keep me calm they told me that they were going to send me to a psych ward only because I had no insurance and that was the only area of the hospital where they could take me and do the necessary medical tests to find out what was wrong with my mouth. I knew this was a crock of shit, but I was stuck there so I waited for the ambulance to arrive that would drive me to the nut house. They allowed me some freedom and as I was gazing out a door I realized no one was watching me so I tried to escape. I ran out the door with my coat on my arms, hospital robe on, looking like an escapee on a rather well-traveled road. I tried stripping off the gown as I was running and started to try to make it through some woods when I heard people yelling my name. There were several hospital staff pursuing me and my mother yelling from a distant house about just come back and we would go home (like I was fool enough to believe that lying bitch). I kept running but I didn't know the area. The woods were full of thorns and thick bushes. I figured I could never make it to the house and my car, and if I did, they would be there waiting for me anyway. Meanwhile, one of the staff was gaining on me. I barely resisted because I am the non-violent type. All I could do was return and wait to be locked up again. While waiting for the ambulance to take me away I called my lawyer friend (Joel Martin Aurnou) to let him know that I had tried to escape but I was being locked up again. What I had foreseen would happen, had happened. I was taken to the same psych ward I had been taken to about seven months earlier. I knew the staff and the routine well. Most of the staff was nice to me knowing that I was not a real problem, just a yakker who got around a lot. I bided my time waiting for the court date, keeping myself occupied with "manic" activity, mostly talking, but also volunteering for activities like keeping the kitchen and dining areas clean. I refused to slow down and let them drug me. I refused to shut my mouth. I considered it a matter of human and constitutional rights. Plus I was afraid that if I did slow down and maybe sleep during the day they would pounce on me and drug me. My lawyer friend refused to take my case fearing that he could not win for me. He said five specialists said nothing was wrong with my mouth and he could not argue with them. He wanted me to go along with the program and try the psych drugs. No way I said, but I was sorely disappointed. I thought we had made a good team the last time. I was down for a couple of hours but after talking to the staff member who had escorted me to court the last time and had seen my performance I felt more optimistic. She told me I had done well, and if I did as well as the last time I should do fine, don't worry. What I did the previous time I call my white male, "one-unit-of-data" act. This act is for the people, like my ex-boyfriend, who cannot handle much stimuli. Tone of voice; body movement; rapidity (energy); volume; each is a unit of data, of stimuli, or possible stress. Each affects communication. For some people you have to keep it very simple and slow, otherwise they are overwhelmed, or scared, or they think you're nuts because they can't follow you. As my lawyer coached me, don't talk too much (just answer the question), don't move too much, don't even smile too much as you tend to do. I translated it into the one-unit-of-data act. Because he met me for only the second time and coached me on the night before our court appearance and saw me with all my tremendous energy, he doubted that I could "focus" and follow his instructions. He even devised a signal to warn me when I might be forgetting to follow his instructions. He flashed it once, but it wasn't necessary. I had already realized I had moved a little too quickly when returning to my set place after looking at the judge to plead my case about my education and intelligence. As I said to him later, it was a "piece of cake." I know how to get along in this world. I know I am supposed to act like a world-weary over-burdened adult, but I prefer to act like an energetic, curious child. God forbid, that makes me nuts! Anyway, my lawyer friend wouldn't represent me this time. There are other lawyers, I thought. I can't give up hope. I started calling and rather quickly located a lawyer, Solomon Abrahams, Esq., willing to represent me and disagree with psychiatric and medical "experts." We went to court where my mother and sister and lawyer friend showed up, too. This time I used every trick my lawyer friend had taught me, adding, (as he told me later regarding a different issue to remember that every man is a man first) a nice dress staff had outfitted me with and a nice hairdo to impress the male judge. I also remembered to be deferential and say, "Yes, your honor," as my new lawyer, Solomon Abrahams, had coached me. So many people were helping me this time I felt quite good and optimistic. More than a few staff members had wished me luck. A staff woman who couldn't handle all my energy, liked me nevertheless, and had gone out of her way to outfit me and volunteer to escort me to court. Having read the records, I knew that my mother had added her argument that I was a threat to myself by not eating and losing weight. According to her this was due to my insanity and my desire to harm myself. In actuality it was due to my TMJ. I knew this would be brought up in court so I had been stuffing myself as best I could at every meal and snack. On several occasions staff allowed me double meals. I managed to put on a few pounds by court date. Although my TMJ was still bothering me, I figured if something serious happened I was in a medical facility and something would be done. It made it easier to get food down. I had to drink through a straw and go into different positions to find the opening to my mouth. I have since learned that these are the worst things I could have done and that is now why I am all mouth and have no set point. At court my lawyer argued that it was my right not to eat and to be thin. The judge questioned me about my diet. I did not talk about my TMJ but explained to him that I do know about healthy eating, I eat protein, vegetables and especially like milk. My sister thought this comment particularly funny. My lawyer also argued that it was my right to disagree with the psychiatrists about my insanity diagnosis. They could be wrong, he said, and disagreeing with them did not make me insane. The issue that messed me up was that I had been incarcerated roughly seven months earlier, I believe, and here I was again. Obviously, he could not let me go again and risk my being incarcerated again or even worse. I explained in my behalf that I had made a mistake last time: I should not have been living with my mother and expressing my anger. I realized I had used poor judgment; my tactics had not worked. It was my intention to put all of that behind me. I would not bother them anymore. The judge ruled somewhere in between, but mostly in my favor. He said the hospital had to release me by a certain date (somewhere about a bit more than a week from then to give them time to get papers and my discharge in order) but that I must take psych drugs and then go for outpatient treatment. All I heard is that I would be out of there soon. Taking the drugs for a while was no major problem. I had been forced to take them before. I had been on them for several months and still got off of them easily, barely affected. The outpatient crap I would worry about once I got out. My lawyer friend told me that I had impressed this judge, too, as I had impressed him and the previous judge. Something about my "character" and being "serene." He wasn't quite sure what words to use to best describe me. (Ever hear of a "serene" manic? You would think it an impossibility.) I was getting quite good at this! We returned to the hospital. At the next call for "meds" I was first in line. Although I refused to pay for my prior hospitalization there, and originally to talk to the psychiatrist who so disrespected me then, we now met most cordially as I realized I could not be released without talking to him and having some type of discharge and payment plan. I agreed to apply for Medicare (or whatever it is) for this hospitalization only and to attend their outpatient center. He now admitted to me that he knew I was a reasonable, cooperative person. Now the only issue was housing. I talked to a former patient who said I could stay with her. Now everything was set. I just had to bide my time and I would be back in control of my life. Well, at least as much as a once labeled "nut" can be. Upon release I took the bus to my mother's house. She was waiting for me with my car packed with my things. She was positively furious that I had "won" once again. She said she wanted me gone, that I could not even spend the night there. She was hovering around me. I could "feel" her venom and actually had the sense that she wanted to jump me. I spent most of the rest of the day packing my car. Late at night I arrived at a local motel. The next day I left town to stay with the ex-patient who had offered me a room. That situation did not work out. In about a week I was looking for a place to stay again. I ended up doing apartment hunting from a motel. Luckily, I found an apartment within a couple of days. I moved in and started my new life of nothing to do with my mother or ex-boyfriend, staying out of their town, my home town, as much as possible. What sweet peace I had found! With my TMJ getting increasingly worse, I gave up my plans for suing, unable to do what was necessary to find a lawyer. Shit, I could barely hold up my head. I spent most of my time in bed. But still it was heaven compared to where I had been the last few years. I started outpatient treatment as court ordered. Of course the hospital's psychiatrist wanted me to stay on the drugs and to give up pot. We had to call my lawyer friend to clarify exactly what was within his rights as to whether he could lock me up again just because I refused to continue to take the drugs. Since he couldn't prove that I was a threat to myself or others he couldn't force the medication on me or re-commit me. I said if he dared try that I would just go back to court and we would play that game again. I now knew the ritual and felt quite confident about beating the system time and time again. My lawyer friend claimed that he felt I had taught the hospital something, going to court and walking out twice. The outpatient treatment psychiatrist also found my energy a bit too much. He was Italian too, like my ex-boyfriend, with the same first name. He asked me didn't I realize that my jumping up and down and flailing arms when I stood up to illustrate things frightened people? I told him I realized it frightened some people, but did that make me nuts because I frightened certain people with my energy and movements? Did that give these people the right to drug me because they were frightened by my behavior which in reality was in no way threatening to them? I saw him for six to eight months. He could never back down from his original stance that he thought I would do "better" on medication (professional pride or solidarity or just plain ignorance or stupidity?), but he began to see that I was hardly a threat to myself or others. In fact, I believe he began to like me and find me rather entertaining now that he knew I wasn't going to jump across the room and attack him just because I stood up suddenly. He kept trying to find issues to treat with drugs or hospitalization. For instance, once I was extremely upset about my TMJ. I believe I might have even started crying and talking about death and dying. No big deal for me to let these emotions and thoughts out. And I have always looked forward to returning to the other side. He took this as my being "too" emotional and falling apart and needing some drugs or hospitalization to get these emotions under control. Just his talking that crap brought me out of that "insanity." Seems another sign of insanity is to not be afraid to think and talk about such issues as death and dying. The reason I keep mentioning my TMJ is because it has consumed my life and because it was finally diagnosed. Those five so-called experts were wrong as I knew they were. First a regular MD diagnosed it when he heard the scrunching/popping sounds when I open and close my mouth. Then months later I went to a dentist who told me I was way above my bite. He ground down some teeth and gave me a mouth piece to try to stabilize my bite. But that didn't work as I knew it wouldn't. I also went to a chiropractor who tried his best to re-align my body and my mouth with no success. I am not expecting miracles, never did. I knew I was in deep trouble the minute my jaw dropped. One night while analyzing what was happening to my body I saw no solution. I could tell my jaw tissue was all over the place, eaten clear through. I, whatever that is, am now in the middle of my mouth or throat. I keep moving my bite even further up just so I can breathe and keep my eyes, throat, and nose clear. Now if I try to move down I "eat" more of myself. It's truly amazing this TMJ. It just won't let me die. Some part of my mouth just keeps clinging to whatever it can. And I, whatever that is, just keep moving where I can to get a little comfort, or to breathe a little better, or to see over my mouth. How I've lasted this long I don't know. Eventually I won't be able to get anything down my throat (what throat? where is it anymore?) or I won't be able to breathe, or I won't be able to eliminate. This cannot go on indefinitely. I can feel parts of my body all over the place, as I eat through them. You never think of how your mouth is connected to the rest of your body. Until you have something like TMJ that is. The worst thing about this whole experience is that prior to it I was a happy-go-lucky hippie type who believed in the essential goodness of people. My ex-boyfriend hated this about me. He always said this is a dog eat dog world and that I should grow up. Well, I have grown up. Now I am a disillusioned, cynical, fearful, disgusted person--much like him. Before I was never afraid of anything or anybody, always feeling capable of taking care of myself, any time, any place, walking streets and woods late at night since my adolescence. That is no longer true, having been molested by my ex-boyfriend, my father, cops, hospital staff and just physically overpowered by the more numerous, more violent, more scared, and/or more powerful. Seems like just about anybody could put their hands on me and get away with it. Now with the label of a violent psychotic that is even more true. I am afraid to even defend myself for I will be accused of being the aggressor and never be believed. I have heard, "seen" and "felt" such ugliness, lies, greed, malice, envy, hatred, violence--just plain pure naked evil--that at times I still shudder in awe that such people exist and are deemed loving and normal while I am deemed nuts. I can no longer deny that such evil exists. It gloats in what it is, does and creates. It runs from the light, cherishing the dark and despises people like me. So be it. I do not give a damn anymore. I just want to get as far away from it and all memory of it as I possibly can. But while still stuck in its midst, I must keep up my defenses and be on my guard. I refuse to forgive and forget. I will not be a naive fool and let evil deceive or overpower me again, as long as I am physically able. It might not sound true, but I have experienced much spiritual growth. I did a lot of reading and practicing of Buddhism in order to learn to love/tolerate/understand/have compassion for my ex-boyfriend and others like him. I could not have endured 23 years with him without some spiritual guidance. I practiced my spirituality and my faith in humanity. I thought that everyone wanted to be good and to do good. (Projection on my part?) I didn't realize how many people have a different idea about what is good. Nor did I realize how many people worship power, the almighty buck and the almighty ego. Neither did I realize how much fear there is in this world and how fear blinds and corrupts the mind and the heart. Ha, ha what a f**king ass hole I was! Yet I believe all that suffering and work led to my spiritual rebirth and to glorious insights into "heaven." But, now I say I have done my work, no more compassion for anyone but myself (or the truly worthy). I must learn to discriminate. I have had enough! And I have seen too much! Being in so much pain and physical discomfort from TMJ that I cannot pursue a legal case or fight back I have resigned myself that this is how it was to be and now have just become ready and eager to return to my true home--perhaps, Pluto (I am a nutty esoteric Scorpio). I see that my earth-life is over. My duty here is done and I have actually accomplished quite a lot. Surely a lot more than I expected. I feel redeemed and vindicated by my beliefs. In my spiritual "psychosis" I foresaw such beautiful intimations/visions of the other side. I realized during my last incarcerations that my redeemer/my "crazy" sacred voice has led me all my life to my fate and given me such comforting and confirming insights that now I am anxious to continue my spiritual journey in the spirit world. I was on such a beautiful spiritual, philosophical, scientific and artistic high that just began to tap my potential. I am still amazed! It was truly heaven! My idea of heaven anyway. Beautiful music, thoughts and learning/seeing/experiencing at an infinitely faster and faster pace. I do now believe that life was created from thought because in my contemplative meditative "insanity" I "saw" or "sensed" it so. I saw infinite planes/universes while studying light and space. It was fantastic! And I could see and interpret my ex-boyfriend's defenses. Nothing those stupid, ignorant psychiatrists or anyone else could say to me could dissuade me from what I know I saw, felt, experienced and put to the test. After my second incarceration I read more and more on the Occult (Gnosticism, Astrology, etc.) and different religions and philosophies including Buddhism (which I had spent years learning from) and realized how much of a true Scorpio mystic/dove/eagle/phoenix/spirit I am and how much of a myth I can make of my life. I rediscovered poetry I had written in adolescence. It was all about searching for Truth and Self and spirituality, and not fitting in in this world. One poem was even called "delusion" (foreseeing my future incarcerations and TMJ?) where I stated that I felt this planet was not my home and that something out there was beckoning me towards the light and that people had tried and would try to triumph over me and in death would believe that they had, but I and others would know better. One part of it went something like this: Somewhere in that infinitude of distance I will find, I know I will, what is there beckoning to me. I hear its call. I feel its pull. But I know not in which direction to turn. I wrote another poem called "Simple" based on the flood (when I then didn't even believe in the Bible). It too hinted at my being an old soul and reincarnation. In this poem I walked away from humanity after having tried to warn it and being ridiculed for being "simple." (My ex-boyfriend used to call me "kiddie" as well as a "weirdo" for years.) It started something like this: They asked me when I came to their door if I knew of worldly things, if I knew of that which was significant, and I, I thought that if I had forgotten I could force myself to remember, not knowing that their world had changed. Then they asked me the riddle of the Sphinx and they laughed at my answer. They asked me why I wanted to enter their world, and I replied, "I must be fool to, but I do. I too want not to be alone." And they laughed for they knew. "Simple," they said, simple as they named me, You may enter our home. They wanted a continual joke behind their door. And they laughed, as I tried not to cry. Knowing but not yet able to accept. It ended something like this: "So I left. The rain would be my new shelter. There was no warmth in their house...and I laughed and laughed and laughed until I cried. Tomorrow, I thought, they will be no more. Tomorrow, he will be no more. Finally understanding that this rain means no more. Why was I so simple to them? Why did they have to laugh at me? Why did they have to laugh? When all the time the joke was on them." Sorry, but I left my poetry with my lawyer friend, Joel M. Aurnou, for safekeeping for it was to be presented as part of my case. I can't remember it too well, but I think it is quite good. Knowing I can't be impartial, I asked a few others to critique it for me and they agreed. I hope they weren't just trying to make me feel good. Poem after poem has the same themes of my life (e.g.,"When Will I Find Myself", "Myself", "Do I Lie?", "Taps for a Lonely Room") and spiritual beliefs (including recurrence... the end, beginning again, take refuge in its arrival, its sure arrival...don't run, don't cry...it will be an ending, just an ending, followed by a beginning, beginning again... another poem goes) which I have since learned are called delusions by so-called psychiatric experts. In my insane grandiosity I dared to call myself a poet, a prophet, a genius, partly based on these prophetic poems I had written in my youth. I hope others get the chance to read them so they can decide for themselves. I think my poems have much to say about life, humanity, courage, being different, being alone and seeking the Self--pure Spirituality. I learned that mystics are called nuts. I believe I'm probably a mystic. I'm contemplative and close to nature. I can almost merge with anything that I contemplate. In fact, in order to fit in I have shied away from becoming too "psychic" and "too intense." I also learned, thanks to one psychiatrist's denial of my intellectual prowess, that I was indeed way above average in intelligence. Two or three awards which I had ignored when I had won them at IBM I now went back to discover were Excellence and Quality Awards. Tests which I had taken while in Phoenix, Arizona, (when I briefly succumbed to believing perhaps I had to complete college in order to get a decent job. I was actually almost desperate enough to compromise my values!) had put me in the upper 2%. I hadn't been in school in years and I took the advanced math test. However, I took the tests twice because the first time I did poorly on the advanced math. Stupid me, I hadn't seen the stuff in over 20 years, how did I expect to do well? So I borrowed a neighbor's math book, studied a chapter a day and almost aced the test. If not for nerves and cramming I could have done even better. Not bad considering. I also recalled taking a Mensa test I found in one of my logic problem magazines. I had completed all the other puzzles and was just looking for something else to keep me occupied. I looked at it quickly and couldn't solve it. I came back later and realized it was a perception problem; there was a word hidden on the page. I thought how does this test intelligence? Today I see it, tomorrow I won't. I didn't take it seriously. But during my research I learned that perception is a part of intelligence. So is perseverance, shown by my coming back to solve the problem. So perhaps I'm not so grandiose after all in saying I'm a genius. Who knows? Who cares? All of this research on who and what I actually am and what I have accomplished, as opposed to what people were saying I was and what I had allegedly done and said, I was doing for my fight against the psychiatric system and my so-called loved ones. An article I read discussed the question of "manic-depressive" or "genius." Genius being prophet, seer, visionary, etc. It stated that a genius has "the mind of a scientist and the soul of a poet." Now, lo and behold, I found my adolescent poetry and my Excellence and Quality Awards in a scientific field (programming). I realized that I had always tested in the upper percentiles, but God forbid, I didn't play the system the way I was supposed to: never married, never had children, never gave a damn about material things or fitting in or getting degrees. Shit, I tried two or three times to make it through college but I couldn't deal with the institutional bull shit and boredom! How dare I be so grandiose and declare myself a genius. It had never been my intention to toot my own horn as so many of my antagonists so routinely do, but I felt forced to do so in self-defense and in defense of all the exceptional individuals who so often are deemed insane. As my mother said when she had me locked up, how dare I think that I, a Black woman, could be successful in this world without a degree (and without a man, too). She is a Doctoral candidate. My sister has her Master's. My ex-boyfriend has a Bachelor's. Me, I'm only a lowly high school graduate. I haven't paid my dues. I haven't bought my ticket into the good life. I haven't the "credentials" to prove I'm much of anything. When assessing my life, I have come to the conclusion that perhaps all that has happened to me (including my TMJ) was fated and that my hospitalizations were inevitable. Without them I would never have learned what an exceptional, worthy human being I am and why I experienced such animosity from so many people. Nor would I have realized how much I had learned from life. Without my ex-boyfriend I don't believe I would have reached my spiritual high. I don't think I could have spent 23 years with anyone else but him. And without my sick family I would not have felt like such an outcast and turned to myself and spirituality. It does make me wonder if I was reincarnated and selected these folks for my evolution. They were so perfect for the task! Victoria D. Gaines The Proud Nut Case (Wouldn't, couldn't, be anything but!) ************************************************