How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb

I’ll be the first to admit that, after 19 days without sleep, on that day I’d planned to get sleep even if it meant I had to drive all the way across the country to get help my mind was pretty hazy.  Like I said, I’d already had reflexes so bad that I didn’t even brake going through the signal at Kent Kangley and 104th.

Saying its a miracle I’m still alive is not a joke.  That is was allowed to get even more insane is outrageous.

But here we are, in that time, and it was day 19 without sleep and at least two, maybe three visits during that time to Multicare’s Dr. Sargent, who had been my doctor for 6 years.  Not best friends, but not exactly unknown either.  I’m sure during the 6 years I must have been there a time or two for something. Probably nothing serious.  A flu or cold, maybe.

Trying to sleep in the parking lot, with February sun warming my face through the window of my truck, still I could not sleep.  I could not even catch a little cat nap.  Getting tired of trying I decided to go in the clinic.  I checked in and was put into an examining room.  Its all a blur.  I remember being allowed to lay down in the dark.  I remember hearing playing from somewhere above U2’s new C.D. release, Miracle Drug.   Yah, Miracle Drug.

Than a woman came in.  A nurse or a medical assistant, I’m not sure.  She was someone I’d never met before.  She set down and told me my mother was in the lobby making a scene. She told me they could not quiet her down.  She was upsetting everyone, and she wanted me to go out there to make her be quiet.  I was confused. Why would my mom be there at Dr. Sargent’s office?  That didn’t make sense.  I did not even tell her I had an appointment.  How did she know I was there?

I don’t remember going into the lobby.  I don’t remember seeing my mom.  I barely remember the woman asking me to go help settle down my mom.  Some of this I’m sharing is what was told to me later by my family.

My mom didn’t know I was there.  She didn’t know I had an appointment.  She only knew that whatever drugs that doctor was giving me had done something terrible to my head, and she was there to demand he did something to help her help me.  She said when I walked out into the lobby she was shocked.  She said I came out and I was “stoned out of my mind.”  She said I was talking oddly, telling her that I was fine and that my doctor is taking the very best care of me.  She said she became outraged and stormed through the door into his office area where she began yelling at him in front of everybody.  She said he was embarrassed but she did not care.  And she asked him what the hell he had done to me, that I was out of my mind, and that he had better do something to help me or he will come to regret it.  She said he kept saying to her, “shhhh shhhhh.” And she told him the hell she will shhhh.

I guess I was returned by somebody into an examining room.  At some point the doctor came in while I was laying there in the dark.  He did a light physical examination, than he left.  I laid there for quite a while, I guess.  Because at some point I got up and began to leave.  I stepped outside the examining room to see the doctor quietly talking with a nurse.  When he saw me he told me to go back into the room and that he will be with me in just a moment.

At some point I think I was in a different room, one that was not dark but light, and with a window.  The doctor was there and he wanted me to go to the hospital with my mom. For some reason I was mad at my mom.  I said no.  Than he asked if I will go with my husband.  Again, I said no.  Than he asked if he can call me a cab.  Even in my condition, especially in my condition, thank goodness I had the sense to say no to a cab.  Honestly, if he would have put me in a cab that would have been the last anyone would have ever seen of me.  Was he really that oblivious?

He told me this, but he said that if I didn’t go willingly than he would force me into the hospital against my will.  He said if I went willingly I could leave the hospital whenever I wanted.  If he forced me than I would be stuck there until “they” decided I was able to be released.  To tell the truth, I didn’t give a rats ass about anything except that he said the hospital would help me get some sleep.  Hooray!  Sleep!  There was no need to force me.  I was ready!  I was past ready!  If I knew where the place was I’d hop in, no I’d crawl out to, the truck myself.  He left, than came back.  He asked if I would go to the hospital if my sister, Tammy, took me.  To that I said yes.  Hooray, my sister would take me to the hospital, so I was happy.  No, I was delirious.  Indeed, I was delirious.  I remember being deliriously happy. Insanely deliriously happy.

I remember on the drive I was laughing and laughing.  I was making my sister laugh, too.  I was out of my mind.  Later someone told me my niece was with us.  I don’t remember her being with me on the ride.  I do remember my sister got lost, so we roamed a little around Tacoma.   It seemed like the ride took forever.  And I kept laughing and laughing.

I remember my sister was checking me in at admitting.  There the clerk must have thought I was insane.  I kept laughing.  I guess my sister handled everything.  I don’t remember.  I only remember being there in the lobby admitting area of St. Joseph’s Hospital in Tacoma.

Later my mom told me she’d followed us in her car. She said she stood outside the big plate glass windows and watched while I was being admitted.  She said she was terrified.

Than my sister and I got onto an elevator.  I remember riding up.  I didn’t remember this part, and later my sister told me.  She said my niece was on one side of me.  She was on the other side.  She said we stepped off the elevator, and she looked down the hall.  What she saw was double doors and above the double doors said “psychiatric ward” or unit, something like that. She said she thought, “Oh crap!  If Judy sees that she will not go in there.”  She said I didn’t seem to notice anything, so she looked over to my niece on the other side of me. She said she looped her arm around mine, than nodded to my niece to do the same thing with my other arm. And she said they both marched me fast right through those double doors before I could notice where it was they were taking me.    I didn’t notice.

What I did notice was a long counter and a woman who was very nice.  She asked me what kind of mattress I liked and if I’d also like a foam eggshell mattress, too, to make the bed soft. The bed!  Did you get that? THE BED! OMG!  A BED!  I was going to get to sleep!  Hooray!  I had no idea I was with the crazy people.  I didn’t care, either. This nice lady was going to help me sleep.  I was among friends.

My sister said she would come back later to see me, than she bid me adieu.

Judy, meet the 11th floor psych ward of St. Joseph’s Hospital, where they were going to dismantle an atomic bomb.  Hooray.!


19 Days Without Sleep Kills

Understandably the last of February 2005 is murky.  As it was before this stated, a major adverse effect of Ambien’s is that rather than helping someone sleep it stops a person from sleeping (this is based upon assuming the person had an unknown pre existing condition.)  Whatever became my pre existing condition (if that information is even believable, because anymore nothing is) was not on Feb. 7th but was on Feb. 8th.  Well, okay.  Whatever.  I took it, had a terrible reaction that made me stumble and fall all over myself.  So that was that, right?  Wrong.

From February 8th until the end of the month I didn’t sleep.  Not one wink.  Imagine that?  No sleep for 20 days.  Yah, yah, yah, throughout the years I’ve given various numbers of days.  19 days, 21 days.  That’s because the records/exhibits were destroyed.  Well, William Kastner Law Firm has had them, too, of course.  But, I don’t have them anymore. There was at least 35 exhibits I gave that day in court to the Clerk and to Cheryl Comer, the doctors (and Multicare’ I presume) attorney from William Kastner Law Firm.  So, okay, 19, 20 or 21 days, can we spell “sleep deprivation”?  If not, here, let me show you.

From Wikipedia:  Sleep deprivation is the condition of not having enough sleep; it can be either chronic or acute. A chronic sleep-restricted state can cause fatigue, daytime sleepiness, clumsiness and weight loss or weight gain. It adversely affects the brain and cognitive function.

Here is a quick and easy article on the effects of sleep deprivation:

From  It has even been said that one could survive for three times as long withoutfood as one could without sleep. Indeed, one of the better known experiments on this subject, found that depriving rats entirely of sleep resulted in their death, or near-dying state, within 11-32 days (Everson et al. 1989).

More on the torture of sleep deprivation:

How long can a human being survive without sleep?

Rupert Baines, CEO at a startup.Semiconductors, wireless, comms, start-ups.

Updated Jun 4

write on

After 2-3 days you will start to hallucinate; after 5 days serious mental effects, and apparently you can die after ~14 days (although I don’t know references for that).

Quite horribly, though (beyond the ”Oh, I pulled two all-nighters, now I need to sleep”): Sleep deprivation is a form of torture.

After two nights without sleep, the hallucinations start, and after three nights, people are having dreams while fairly awake, which is a form of psychosis.
“By the week’s end, people lose their orientation in place and time – the people you’re speaking to become people from your past; a window might become a view of the sea seen in your younger days.
To deprive someone of sleep is to tamper with their equilibrium and their sanity.

It was a favoured torture technique of the KGB

Menachem Begin, the Israeli prime minister from 1977-83, was tortured by the KGB as a young man.
In his book, White Nights: The Story of a Prisoner in Russia, he wrote of losing the will to resist when deprived of sleep.
“In the head of the interrogated prisoner, a haze begins to form. His spirit is wearied to death, his legs are unsteady, and he has one sole desire: to sleep… Anyone who has experienced this desire knows that not even hunger and thirst are comparable with it.
“I came across prisoners who signed what they were ordered to sign, only to get what the interrogator promised them.
“He did not promise them their liberty; he did not promise them food to sate themselves. He promised them – if they signed – uninterrupted sleep! And, having signed, there was nothing in the world that could move them to risk again such nights and such days.”…

Disgustingly, it is a technique adopted by USA in Guantanamo Bay

The 2003 Pentagon Working Group Report, approved by former Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, lists sleep deprivation as an approved interrogation method.…


So please don’t be too harsh on me if some things are a little fuzzy.  I went somewhere from 19 to 21 days, depending upon which day I decided I could take no more, whether it was a Friday or a Monday.  I think my (now es) husband’s days off were Sunday and Monday, so I’m going to assume I went over the edge on Friday, Feb. 25th.

I want to remind any readers that I was still in physical therapy and muscle massage therapy due to the deep tissue injuries I’d sustained in the previous July’s car wreck.  What this means is that my insurance (GEICO) was still requiring me to see the doctor every other week to gets notes from him about my progress.   If I did not get a note the treatment would stop.  What this also means is that I definitely seen the doctor  around February 21st, assuming, as I’d said, he’d given me the Ambien prescription on Monday, February 7th.    From my recollection, I believe I saw went to see him the following week of February 14th – 18th.   I am certain I went to see him the next week, February 21 – 25th, again.  I am certain by then I was expressing my concerns about not sleeping, and most certainly I was exhibiting the condition.  As I recall, the doctor’s staff was treating me like I was some type of alien from outer space.

All that aside for now, for what its worth, what was my condition?

Well, (again as far as I can remember), by February 13th, I think I was hallucinating.  I recall that evening my ex was watching football.  Looking back, it must have been the Sunday night pro bowl game. I remember standing at the kitchen sink, I suppose snacking, when I looked out to see the Columbia Tower reflecting the sun setting so that it appeared as an obelisk in flames.  I thought of Jesus,  and it seemed I was recollecting something from the Bible, about his coming.  The flame seemed ominous, a forewarning of something to come by Seattle.  2nd Thessalonians 1:8-9 warns, “In flaming fire taking vengeance on them that know not God, and that obey not the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ: Who shall be punished with everlasting destruction from the presence of the Lord, and from the glory of his power.

I turned towards the television and the announcers were mocking me.  Making fun of what I’d seen, the image with light all around him above and to the right of the preacher at church when Teresa took me the previous year.  The figure in the light was now above the right shoulder of one of the announcers.  But it was different, and the announcers were laughing at me. That blew my mind even more.

On Valentine’s Day my (now) ex had decided to take candy to my physical therapists because I had been gushing over how well they were taking care of me.  In fact, concern was being expressed for why I was not improving.  What had happened to me on the “night of the Ambien” did not occur to me.  Probably this is because I didn’t remember its happening.  I only knew from what my (now) ex had told me.  I only remembered those two segments I’ve already shared. One, his being in the bathroom doorway, the other his leaving me alone in the dark of the bedroom.  And, of course, everything from that night forward and for a long time to come, was a blur.  But he’d taken candy to the ladies, and that was kind.  I remember his face when he told me.  I think he was trying to make up for not helping me that night.  And it was a contention.  It was THE contention with me, really.  Why didn’t he call 911?  Why didn’t he get me to the hospital?  Why didn’t he help me?  The honest to God’s truth is that if he would have done something the hospital would have diagnosed the adverse reaction, and they would have done something right then and there to correct things.  Yes, his neglecting me remained a contention.   So even though his eyes implored forgiveness, in my own eyes he’d become a demon.  I’d already entered the abyss and, from that, there was no turning back.


As things were going, I was talking about my condition, though.  I am a talker.  It is what my (now) ex loved about me because he is rather quiet.  I don’t talk incessantly, usually.  But I did happy chatter.  But, not anymore.  I was not sleeping.  I really don’t remember or not if I kept taking the Ambien.  Its hard to say.  But I was talking.  I suppose people just weren’t putting 2 and 2 together.  I remember I’d told the ladies at physical therapy that I felt like I’d been up all night scrubbing around the toilet with my toothbrush.   I’d seen that in some military movie, where a soldier was ordered to clean the bathroom floor with a toothbrush.  I told my (now) ex I felt like that’s what I’ve been doing all night every night (instead of sleeping.)

I remember one evening as I left the family room I turned back to tell him I was going to bed, and for some reason he was right behind me.  Very cruelly he asked, “To go scrub the toilet with your toothbrush?”  He said it so sinister that he jerked his head  seemingly to look out the window, almost as if he was afraid someone had watched him say that.  It was very bizarre.  I didn’t know what to say or think.  I went to bed.

I think it was that night he came  into the room.  I saw him in the dark collecting up all of the prescriptions bottles that set on my nightstand.  I pretended I was asleep.  I didn’t want to talk with him.  But I wondered what he was doing.   Why was he getting into them?  Those were all of the bottles, though, of everything the doctor had given me (short of the Vioxx samples) since September/October of the previous year.

At some juncture I told him I’d seen him, and asked what he was doing.  He said he’d written a list and given it to his sister, the nurse, to tell him what they were.  I don’t know what ever came of that.

At any rate, the ladies at physical therapy were expressing concerns about my worsening condition.    My insurance company was harassing me.  I was not sleeping.  And my husband had turned into a demon.  I believed, too, my doctor was totally in love with me and taking the best care of me any doctor could.  Oh barf!  Anyway, it seemed like I kept going to his office but they weren’t helping me.  I cannot imagine what me (now) ex was thinking of my behavior.  Maybe he was, like my Godmother later told me, in shock too by it all.  Its hard to say.

What I do know is that I had to sleep and nobody was doing anything to help me.  When, on that Monday, February 21st the doctor didn’t so anything I began to realize I was going to have to take matters into my own hands. What to do? What to do? Aha!  I would try one more time to get help from my doctor.  And than if he still refused then I would drive across the country to Ohio with my things.  I knew in Ohio if my son saw my condition he would do something to help.

About this time my Mom was becoming hysterical.  She would call and whatever I was saying to her over the phone she would shout to me that I was out of my mind. She asked me what that doctor was giving me, that I was so messed up?   Later she told me that I would reply in some absurdly breathy voice that my daaahktor is the beeeest eeeeever.  I was making my Mom sick, too.

By Friday, I think it was, my plan to get out of there to find sleep had been formulated.  After me (now) ex, Don, left for work I loaded up my truck with everything I thought I would need to get by away from home.  There was my exercise ball and weights so that I could continue my physical therapy while I was gone.  I had clothes and everything packed and ready.   I went to the back and took $4,000 out of an account.  I figured that would get me there and give me some money to get by until I would return having slept.  I drove down to the doctor’s office, one more time.   They could not get me in until later in the day.  I think they scheduled me for around 11 or so.  Maybe 1, I don’t exactly remember.

From making the appointment I drove up the hill to physical therapy., which was not too far.  I must have been in pretty bad shape because instead of working me out they put me on the elliptical bike, where I peddled the whole appointment.  While I peddled I tried to figure out where I might go to take a nap.  I wasn’t going back home, because there I could not sleep.  I had in my head the problem was Don and that house.  Evil had taken over it, and maybe if I could just get to someplace that wasn’t evil, than I could take a nap.  So I decided to go to my sister’s.   Her house was only about 8 blocks from the physical therapist’s, so I would go there when I was done.  I don’t know what I was thinking, because it was a workday so my sister would be at work.  Probably I could not think anymore that far ahead.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that when I got to my sister’s, of course, she was not home and the house was locked up.  sigh……  I did not know what to do.

As I descended the steps her truck pulled into the driveway.  My sister had taken off the day, and she and my niece had been running errands.  As I stumbled up to the truck, seeing my condition, they did not get out.  Instead my sister called my Mom from her cell phone and she was telling my Mom about my condition.  I remember I was asking my niece to please just let me go into the house to lay down.  I told her I need to sleep, that I haven’t slept in along time.  I asked them to please help me get some sleep.  Somebody did let me into the house, where I went downstairs to their family room to lay on the sofa.  It wasn’t comfortable.  I tried the recliner.  It wasn’t comfortable.  I was like Goldilocks looking for a place that was just right.   A place where my body and mind could relax to sleep.   But, it wouldn’t, I wouldn’t, and I could hear my sister talking with my Mom. She was upset.  Hearing her was upsetting me.  While she talked I slipped out, and got into my truck to leave.  I would go to the Multicare’s parking lot.  It was a warm day so maybe if I parked with the sun shining on me I would fall asleep there while waiting for the appointment.  Yep, that is what I would do.

I recall being aware I was impaired.  As I drove off, down the somewhat meandering drive from my sister’s, I remember wondering if I would even make it.  I remember making it to the signal at Kent Kangley, to turn left towards the  Multicare, and that I was very happy I recognized it was red so that I stopped for it.  Every breath was difficult to take.  Right now, remembering, every breath is difficult to take.  I am horrified of the memory.

After the left turn at the light it was pretty much a straight shot to the Multicare parking lot.  Kent Kangley turned into Smith.  Multicare was on Smith and State.  I could make it.  Except, that the straight shot had another major signal.  Maybe two.  Yes, two, I think.  I don’t remember going through them, with exception to the signal at Kent Kangley and 104th.  For Kent, that was a busy intersection.   And, because it was around noontime, there would be traffic.  I absolutely, unequivocally do not know how I made it through that signal without being broadsided.  All that I remember is going through it red.  I remember as I went under the red signal thinking I had just ran that light.

Than I was at the Multicare parking lot, and there I tried again to get some sleep before the appointment.

You’ve just crossed over into The Twilight Zone.

Someone can question my memory.  I’m not here to argue.  I’m here to tell my side.

There are two things I remember from the night of February 7th, 2005, after my (now ex) husband left to watch television.

The first memory is somewhat like a freeze frame.  I was setting naked on the cool toilet, lid down.   The light was on in the bathroom.  I looked to the bathroom doorway to see my (now ex) husband looking at me.   End.

The second memory is of me in bed.  The lights were out, but the light was streaming in from the hallway.  I could see my (now ex) husband’s silhouette standing there.  He was reaching for the door handle for closing the door.  He was leaving me there alone.  I didn’t want him to go.  Something was wrong.  I didn’t know what, and I tried to tell him. But he wasn’t listening.  I remember I wanted to make him laugh, so that he would come back.  I was telling him the prescription said to not operate heavy equipment.  Meaning I was the heavy equipment that I should not have been trying to operate.  Than the door closed, and I was left alone in the dark.

I cannot express how much it still hurts to remember that.  But from there, it only got worse.

I could not sleep.  Not sleeping was the #1 indication of an adverse reaction.  Not that anyone cared, and not that I was in any condition anymore to help myself. Because the first night I took it there was no negative reaction, and one of the primary causes of a negative reaction was having an un diagnosed pre existing condition, makes me I wonder if that night on Feb. 8th I got pregnant. Because what could have changed from the 7th to the 8th? I had a lot of questions that later I tried to ask, of which the doctor was not willing to deal with. The life of his privilege, evidently.

Anyway, by early morning I was worn out from laying there in the bed without sleeping, so I got up and went into the familyroom.  I set there for some time until the morning sun began streaming through the south windows.  As it lit my body what I saw horrified me.  My body had bruises all over.  Big bruises.  Arms, legs, torso.  And I was so very sore.  What happened to me, I wondered?  What happened?

By that time, because of my earlier car injuries, my (now ex) husband was sleeping downstairs in the extra bedroom.  He would be getting up soon, though, so I waited.  I heard the shower start.  Than after a bit he was at the top of the steps, looking at me.  I guess he was surprised to see me there.  He stood there for a bit, until I asked him what happened the night before.  I stretched out my arms and pointed to the bruises there and on my legs, too, and told him I was all bruised up.  Rather than coming over to look he told me he was getting ready for work, and he went into the kitchen to get coffee.  I remained on the sofa where he found me. But I kept asking him what happened.  He refused to talk about it.

The long and the short of it, he finally said, was that he was watching television and heard a lot of banging and crashing going on down the hall from the bedroom.  He said that when it went on for a long time he started to get up to see what was going on.  Than the noise stopped, so he went back to watching television.

Next, he said, the crashing started again.  After it went on for a while he got up.  He said he found me in the hallway at the bedroom door.  I was on the floor, against the corner of the door frame.  He thought my neck was broken, by the way I was crumpled up.  He pushed me with his foot, and I groaned.  Since I was not dead he told me to crawl into bed.  Which he said I did.  And that was that.

Now, let me be clear.  I led a very quiet lifestyle.  I did not drink, do drugs, party or make loud noises.  In an established environment like that, wouldn’t a loving person rush to see what the racket was the first time around?  What if someone had broken in so that there was a struggle?  My God!  I wonder, who the heck was this man I’d been married to for 28 years that he would not rush to see what was going on!

Even worse, that was not my memory.  My memory was that he’d seen me in that bathroom.  Surely he’d noticed my stupor!  Suddenly this man became a stranger to me.  I cannot express the sorrow that filled my heart realizing he cared so little.  It still does.

I kept questioning him, so he was getting mad.  He stormed out, to go to work.  So, yes, I guess that is when he told me.  In the morning before work.

For the first time, that day I missed muscle therapy.  I remember the therapist called trying to cajole me into coming.  But I could not move.  I laid all day on the sofa suffering and in shock.

Nothing was ever going to be the same again.

Speaking ahead, when the man they sent to rape and mind fuck me asked, after he did, “Girls get heartbroken every day. What makes you so special?” I told him, and this was and is true, he was nobody to me. Truth was, he could never break my heart. My heart was already broken by my (now ex) husband. Even later, after I finally tried to kill myself in Nov. 2012, a psychologist told me very few women survive a divorce like mine. Especially under these circumstances.

The hurt from my (now ex) husband was so great it is true that, to begin with, in 2007 I asked Mr. Boileau to please leave me alone.

To be honest, I don’t think I’ve survived any of it. I just pretend I have. And not very well, at that.

Through The Rearview Mirror

To a reader:  Telling this story does not make me happy.  Furthermore, reliving it is very difficult.  For one thing, many of the people involved are ones who I trusted.   They are people who I relied upon, and they turned against me. I know I’ve said it before, but I did NOT want to believe they could do what they have done.  I’m no stranger for evil or violence, but its being so rampant in people we are geared to trust?  Well, honestly, still naive, as things unfolded I wanted to believe there was something bigger, greater, another reason for why they had turned on me!  It was this wishing that made me very vulnerable, too, to being targeted.

The truth is, I am not a vindictive person.  It has not ever been my intention to hurt anyone.    But, wanting to believe them and the narrative I (we) have been brainwashed to believe did not help me.  Instead, it hurt me more.

I just did not want to believe the people who I trusted and the ones I was taught to trust, to acquiesce to as authority, could be so evil.

Nonetheless, its hard to tell this story, because I did liked and trusted turned on me.  Some with explanation. Some without.  And every single one of them thought of themselves before they considered me.  But for some it was their jobs to consider me first.  So, besides that the mind drugs open the portals to Lucifer, their breaking our trust is another huge problem.

As we move forward, very personal things will be revealed.  This makes me uncomfortable because I am actually a very social but personally private person.  How I express these personal things may or may not seem delicately said to the reader.  However its construed, it is what it is, but I hope its not offensive.

By February 2005 I was still in physical and muscle relaxation therapy. Still keeping a rigorous schedule to recover.  Still in pain.  I really don’t know how it came about that on February 7th, 2005, the doctor gave me a prescription for Ambien. Funny, how I remember that exact date, but I do.  The Rx was the original Ambien.  I know Ambien has had a formula change since then to something called Ambien CR.   But what I was given was the original formula, on February 7th, 2005.

As far as I remember I actually took one on the 7th, without no special reaction.

On February 8th, as I prepared for bed, I took another.  That evening, after taking the one, my (now ex) husband and I were intimate.  As men can do, he left the bedroom to go watch television.  I remained naked in bed, ready to fall asleep.  From that point forward what happened becomes sketchy.

The Voices In Your Head

Beautifully so, last evening a friend made the comment:


What a timely observation, considering we are at the place here shortly after I’ve brought up the voice in my head.  Especially the voice, when after I began saying oddball things to my close relations that was so out of character,  I asked myself who said that?  Of course I could not let my friend’s comment go unnoticed.

I replied:  “I call it talking into thin air.”  hahahahaa!

Than someone said, “Well , I need expert advice.”

And another said: “Try some LSD, it will clear your head of everything.”

To which my friend replied:  “Haha…I have weird enough conversations without it!!”

Than he replied back, “Me, too!”

Laughing over that, someone else piped up more seriously with: “The odd part is, who are we talking to? Some psychologists believe we all have separate parts of our personality that we indeed do have conversations with.”

Always quick on her feet, my friend responded:   “They’re seriously better than conversations I have with most real people!”

Than I added my own two cents:  “I tend to think really impressionable people don’t realize they are talking to themselves, so they think other people are in their heads.  Like schizo! IDK. Although ELF, and things like that are trying to talk with us from the exterior. That cannot be discounted. But a sane person knows what that is about. Did I just say that? Actually, its a normal part of reasoning (maybe with emotions or just for the good company.”

Another commented:  “Signs of life, signs of brain.”

Someone else said: “And my first take at that was “an endless medical   conversation…” And at a certain age, that also becomes true.”

I laughed and said:  “At 62 years old, more and more!”

Another replied:  “So weird!”

Yet another reply: ” 😁…guess we would be brain dead if we didn’t have these         enlightening conversations…!!!”

And another:  “Showrooms help.”  “Shrrpoms.”

Than me again:  “Seriously, my (now ex) husband used to talk to himself out loud.   Usually muttering while figuring out something, or complaining with himself when he was mad. Hah! I thought it was funny. Really, I don’t think I ever realized an inner turmoil with myself until…well, never mind. I’m writing about that in my story. Not everyone seems to have inner awareness.  I really do think talking to one’s self IS that inner awareness. But its great for self resolving problems when others don’t have answers. I try to not talk out loud though. Its a bad habit to start. But sometimes I do like hearing my own voice.”

Than someone told my friend: “That makes two of us Carolyn, only one exception, you my dear Carolyn. lol”

Than a woman in the group acknowledged: “I do it. I give myself the best counseling.”

End of conversation.


Remember those Saturday morning cartoons where the angel would set on one shoulder and the devil on another?  That is our conscience.  Maybe its our deep conscience?  Either way, I think its where our identity and discipline comes from. The mind drugs really screws that up.  But, for anyone wanting to misconstrue the voices in my head, previously brought up, I think last evening’s conversation can clear up any negative criticism about that. And the truth is, friends, there are some people who don’t have on their shoulders the angel. About 25% of the population is sociopath aka known as anti social.

Anti social should not be construed as a person who is an introvert or one who does not enjoy socializing. Clinically anti social means they are one or two steps from being a psychopath. An anti social will gather around him or herself narcissists, because the key ingredient to narcissism is being self centered. The sociopath will use narcissists to blend in, if really narcissists fools us, too.

We have all dealt at work (or maybe even at home) with a narcissist. We know who they are. And birds of a feather do flock together. And maybe narcissism and sociopaths have those qualities as the common denominator in their gang stalking. Hum. This is the first time I’ve considered it.

Too bad for the cronies, and good for me/us, people are starting to work with me/us, instead of against me/us.

By the time this is finished, for the cronies maybe bouncing balls around the golf course won’t be quite as much fun as it used to be.

Thanks to the reader, in advance, for indulging me with some defense. I’m basking in the freedom through it.






Well, geez, that wasn’t so bad!

Right?  It only took me about an hour to settle down to realize the doctor wasn’t setting out to kill me, initially.    That’s kind of a relief.

Thus far its only been an incorrectly prescribed drug, out the gate.  Handfuls of a drug that was taken off the market that just so happened to kill 60,000 people (that we know of.)  And letting my blood pressure to go 199/99.    Not too bad.

But, wait. There’s more.

To be honest, after the Vioxx I really don’t remember what else he gave me.  One time I did go through a list of drugs and thought I’d found the names. There were three of four others, until the day of the Ambien, that after the Ambien my (now ex) husband wrote a list of to hand his sister who is a nurse.  I guess at some point he decided I was acting too weird and needed a second opinion.  I don’t really know whatever became of that second opinion.  I guess nobody really cared.  But from October or November 2004 until February 2005 he handed me about 3 or 4 prescriptions in a variety of mind drugs.  I did give a list to them, along with about 35 other exhibits, when the doctor took me to court after the Ambien, but the courts destroyed the exhibits.  For a while I held onto all of that. But the worse I got, the less inclined or able I was to hold on.

But things muddled along with the doctor changing up the meds as fast as I could say to him, “Wow I’m turning into a weirdo”, or something to that affect.  And with each change I was more than ever convinced that my doctor was the absolute best doctor in the whole wide world, and he was taking such good care of me.  He loved me, and I loved him.

Now, realize this, that some of these drugs actually cause this weird kind of infatuation.  If you can recall Lisa Womack, the married with children NASA astronaut, who drove across the country wearing a Depends so she could more quickly get to her destination to beat up a woman she thought had become her co worker’s girlfriend than you will see that I was not the only one.  Lisa’s career was destroyed.  And its public record, if you can find it (and if the link in this blog or the Psychotropic Recovery blog still is working) you will read about the 60 little orange pills that was a prescription Lisa was given by the NASA psychiatrist.  Sixty little orange pills that nobody really wanted to talk about.  Sixty little pills that probably were the cause of Lisa’s delusions and of her career being destroyed.  But, hey, move along now.  Nothing to see here.

I’ve thought about Lisa, Misty and Rick, too, and others whose names I’ve brought up.  And I’ve wondered if they or their families might be offended by exampling them.  But, really, its all  been public record.  And these people have been very real to me during a time when nobody understood.  These people were the ones who kept me knowing I was not alone in whatever it was.  And this is true despite that I couldn’t seem to figure out what to do about my own situation.   All said, I really hope nobody is offended by my stating their names.  Because, really, without knowing me or knowing it, they have been my inspiration to keep going.  So I owe them.  RIP Misty.  RIP Rick.

About these people, a common denominator came to be a public (although it should not have been) assertion.  It was that they were addicted to prescription drugs.  When I read its being said about Misty that really pissed me off. Because it was said in the deposition I gave the courts, about that woman at Western State Dr. Sargent’s dad and his cronies had been dumping drugs into.  Its slander and defamation. For them to give people prescriptions and then while we are exhibiting the negative effects to suggest we are some type of loser addicts is outrageous.  I wish I still had that deposition, because it would make you sick to read.  The response to the woman by the doctor’s dad and his crony network was so terribly derogatory, as if the ones who were dumping that crap in her were oblivious to what those drugs were doing to her.  And that is what they were playing off with Misty.  It is what they played off with Rick. And it is what they were playing off around town about me, too.

They will never accept responsibility for what they do to people.  And here is the rub.  About me, they were wrong.  I cannot say this about anyone else because I did not know them, nor Rick that well.  Yes, I was too stable.  No, I was not mentally ill. No, the negative effects had nothing to do with my childhood.

Oh, yes, I got to hear it all through the grapevine.  Again, never mind HIPAA.

Reality is its those prescribers who should have their heads examined.

And there that doctor was dumping one right after another into me without batting an eye.

And there I was starting to act like some love struck cow.  Mooooooo moooooo mooooooo.

Totally sickening, totally not myself.

And it gets even worse.

Jumping The Wake

So where, actually, did Hell begin?

As it goes in July 2004 I was in a very bad accident.  Two care providers told me I was the worst injury they’d seen without the neck actually being broken.  I believe it, because while I set there stunned from the collision I swear the grim reaper came and looked at me through the passenger window, expecting to find me dead.  When he saw I wasn’t, he left, never to be seen again.

As other people gathered around it was obvious they, too, expected I’d been killed.

The reason I mention the wreck is because to receive physical therapy my insurance required for me to send them a note every two weeks from the doctor. What this meant, of course, is that I was seeing my doctor often so that he and his staff were becoming familiar with me in ways we had never been before.  Because until that time I saw the guy, maybe, once a year.  Probably less.  I have always been healthy so there was no need.  Obviously, from my history, I was not “into” doctors.  But there I was, suddenly having to go there every other week, on orders from my insurance company.  The doctor put me onto a rigorous therapy program.  Physical therapy 3 x a week.  Massage therapy 2 x a week.

So the accident was in July.  The insurance, GEICO, began harassing me.  Than they began suggesting something else was the matter, than they were accusing me of fraud.  Basically, my insurance, GEICO, was scaring me and stressing me out, so that I was becoming depressed and very concerned about why my condition was  not improving.

Around that time, maybe in September, I don’t recall exactly, during one of the visits I told my doctor I thought I was getting depressed.  His reply acknowledging that what I was going through was very depressing.  Indeed, I had been terribly injured. But, of course, unless we’re bleeding out of all of our orifices nobody believes it. Yet the xrays and professionals I was seeing were very aware of just how injured I was.

I’d always been pretty vital, albeit overweight, so this immobility and pain was not something I was taking lightly.  I did not miss one single therapy appointment.  I was going to recover, recover well, and recover fast!  But, for all of my work, I wasn’t.   So, yes, I was getting pretty depressed.

In response, at the following appointment, my doctor offered a prescription to help with depression.  I didn’t relate that prescription to the prescription neuro transmitter mind altering drug article I’d read so many years ago.  I guess when our doctors hand us a prescription we think of it like we would aspirin.  Anyway, that’s how I thought of it.  Like aspirin would take down a fever or take away some pain, this would take away the sad feeling.  No big deal, right?  Wrong.

Right now, just thinking about it all overwhelms me.  What started with that seemingly innocuous prescription of Paxil has been nothing less than 13 years nightmare that, for me, will never end.

Not sure  at this point if it even matters, but what the doctor gave me was not an anti depressant, anyway.  It was a prescription called Buspar.

From the internet, this is what Busparone is for: Buspirone is a medication for anxiety (anxiolytic) that works by affecting certain natural substances in the brain (neurotransmitters).

Buspirone can alter your psyche and cause depression, tiredness and even excitement.  Can you take BuSpar with high blood pressure?  If you do, you may develop extremely high blood pressure.

The Buspar did not agree with me, and I began getting anxiety.  I’ve never really been a person to have anxiety.  What I am referring to as anxiety is a sense of dread, included with a sense that I was crawling out of my skin.  Because I was dealing with the physical and muscular massage therapy, I wan’t quite sure if that was cause, too, so I told the doctor.

In response to that he took me off Buspar and gave me Paxil.

Paxil is for depression.  Here is what the internet has to say about Paxil: Antidepressant Paxil Also May Affect Personality. … Researchers say Paxil and likely other antidepressants in the class of drugs called selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs) may improve higher levels of neuroticism and lower levels of extraversion that are commonly seen with depression.  If you would like to read more about Paxil, feel free to do so.

Paxil began quickly changing my personality.  I will do my best to share with the reader what that was like.

Everyone close to me were people I’d had long term relationships with.  For me, there was a natural rhythm to those relationships.  I consider this is what is meant by being familiar with people.  My close relationships and I were familiar.  We weren’t boring, but our personalities were reliable and predictable.  We did things together, we talked a lot, and we were close.

Somewhere in between the Paxil and the doctor’s handing off handfuls of Vioxx samples, I changed.  Noticeably, to myself.  Probably to others.  I don’t know.  But suddenly I was finding myself saying weird crap and seeing myself and people close to me in a different light.

For example, a usual conversation on the phone with my niece would always be something like this:  “Hi, what are you doing?”  “I’m finishing my homework,”  “When you are done, do you want to go to the mall, or bake cookies, or go somewhere to eat?”  “Sure, Aunt Judy. That sounds like fun.”  “Okay, call me when you’re done and we’ll figure out which we want to do.”  “Okay.”

The new, different conversation on the phone with my niece, courtesy of drugs, would be like:  “Hi, what are you doing?”  “I just got back from walking the Tyler.  What are you doing?”  “My doctor is in love with me.  He’s taking good care of me.”  “Oh, that’s good, I think.”  “Yah, I think I would take a bullet for him.  I think he’s moved to Renton.”  “Uh, oh, good, Aunt Judy.  Bye.”

Where the hell did that come from?  Not the same rhythm.  Judy and Toto left Kansas.  My niece has always been pretty easy going, but even at her age, at the time, I cannot imagine she wasn’t thinking, “Holy crap?!”

From that latter conversation example, as I recall, we did not go to the mall. We did not go out to get something to eat.  We did not bake cookies.   What I remember is hanging up the phone and having a very strange surreal feeling that I was not alone.  Someone was there, listening.  And why did I say those weird things?  That wasn’t me.  Who was I?

That is what I call having a drug induced identity crisis.  How do you think this affects relationships?  It should go without saying it changes them, and dramatically so!  Its freaky, and its horrifying, too.  Duh, for some reason I related it to the drugs but it didn’t quite connect to not take them.  I trusted my doctor.  My doctor loved me.  You only needed to ask and I would have been happy to tell you all about it.  Oh God.

At this point, I want to stop here to say that also in the duration my blood pressure  was allowed by him to go from 132ish/68ish in July 2004 to 199/99 by December-ish!!!  Also my weight was dropping.  How I noticed my blood pressure had changed was because during a visit the doctor showed me a graph of my weight loss.  The line on the graph went almost straight down.  At first I thought he was teasing me.  So I went closer to my chart to see he was serious.  From July 2004 until around December 2004 I had lost almost 100 lbs!  And that was good, right?!  Except also I saw there that my blood pressure was skyrocketing, too!  199/99! Geeeezus!  It didn’t even correlate with that I was losing weight, so I can only attribute the blood pressure to the drugs.  At the time I didn’t think of that, because by the, figuratively speaking, I’d already gone out to lunch.  He gave me blood pressure pills, and that was that.

So somewhere along the way, I told him the Paxil was making me weird, so he handed me a bunch of those Vioxx samples.  Now, all of this being said, I’m not a scientists and I’m not a doctor.  Any or all of them and their lawyers can argue, refute, and/or criticize me or my accuracy in any way they want to.  I don’t care.  They can all go to Hell.  This is my first hand accounting of what happened to me, as close as I can get to accurately telling it.  It has destroyed my life and my relationships in ways that they will never be mended.  I went from a cookie baking Aunt Judy to who knows who?   Do you know Vioxx was taken off the market?  And why did he give me those anyway?

Shall we take a look at Vioxx? From the internet: It is supplied by Merck & Company Inc..Vioxx is used in the treatment of period pain; pain; osteoarthritis; rheumatoid arthritis; migraine and belongs to the drug class cox-2 inhibitors.

How many people were killed by Vioxx?
Graham has estimated that Vioxx killed some 60,000 patients–as many people, he points out, as died in the Vietnam War. He says that fundamental problems at the FDA led to those deaths.
It was later approved to be used for rheumatoid arthritis. Vioxx was voluntarily pulled from the market by Merck on September 30, 2004.
Will someone please tell me why he gave me those?
I have to stop right here, for now, because I am starting to become upset.  Did he do that to me on purpose?  Why would he give me handfuls of a sample drug that had been taken off the market after killing 60,000 people?
This is the first time I’ve learned this about Vioxx, that it killed all of those people.
I only went to the internet to copy for you to show that Vioxx wasn’t even for depression, and now I’ve discovered this.  I need to take a break now.
Not the catharsis I’d expected, jumping the wake.


ADDED: Having shaken it off, I don’t think the guy was out to kill me (yet.) He was incompetent. Period.

Hippocratic Oath

The following information is taken from the internet, including Wikipedia.
The original oath:

I swear by Apollo the Healer, by Asclepius, by Hygieia, by Panacea, and by all the gods and goddesses, making them my witnesses, that I will carry out, according to my ability and judgment, this oath and this indenture.

To hold my teacher in this art equal to my own parents; to make him partner in my livelihood; when he is in need of money to share mine with him; to consider his family as my own brothers, and to teach them this art, if they want to learn it, without fee or indenture; to impart precept, oral instruction, and all other instruction to my own sons, the sons of my teacher, and to indentured pupils who have taken the physician’s oath, but to nobody else.

I will use treatment to help the sick according to my ability and judgment, but never with a view to injury and wrong-doing. Neither will I administer a poison to anybody when asked to do so, nor will I suggest such a course. Similarly I will not give to a woman a pessary to cause abortion. But I will keep pure and holy both my life and my art. I will not use the knife, not even, verily, on sufferers from stone, but I will give place to such as are craftsmen therein.

Into whatsoever houses I enter, I will enter to help the sick, and I will abstain from all intentional wrong-doing and harm, especially from abusing the bodies of man or woman, bond or free. And whatsoever I shall see or hear in the course of my profession, as well as outside my profession in my intercourse with men, if it be what should not be published abroad, I will never divulge, holding such things to be holy secrets.

Now if I carry out this oath, and break it not, may I gain for ever reputation among all men for my life and for my art; but if I transgress it and forswear myself, may the opposite befall me.[3] – Translation by James Loeb.

It is often said that the phrase “First do no harm” (Latin: Primum non nocere) is a part of the Hippocratic oath. The phrase as such does not appear in the oath, although the oath does contain Latin: … noxamvero et maleficium propulsabo (Also … I will utterly reject harm and mischief).[4] The phrase “primum non nocere” is believed to date from the 17th century.
Why is the Hippocratic oath important to society today?
The Hippocratic oath covers several important ethical issues between doctors and patients. The oath first establishes that the practitioner of medicine give deference to the creators, teachers, and learners of medicine. … The oath serves as a contract for doctors to work towards the benefit of the health of the public.

Modern Version. I swear to fulfill, to the best of my ability and judgment, this covenant: I will respect the hard-won scientific gains of those physicians in whose steps I walk, and gladly share such knowledge as is mine with those who are to follow. dtd. Mar 27, 2001

Although most do not swear to the original Hippocratic Oath, the majority of doctors do take an oath – often when they graduate from medical school. Despite early disinterest, physician oaths began to come into vogue after World War II. dtd. Nov 15, 2013

As an important step in becoming a doctor, medical students must take theHippocratic Oath. And one of the promises within that oath is “first, do no harm” (or “primum non nocere,” the Latin translation from the original Greek.) dtd. Oct 14, 2015


Health care privacy and data security:

The HIPAA confidentiality and security or “privacy” rules required Covered Entities that engage in HIPAA transactions to protect Individually Identifiable Health information against disclosure to unauthorized parties.  Covered Entities include physicians, health clearinghouses, and health plans.