stage whisper: the password is... "oppression"

if my contracted fingers hold out, you've a magnificent, soul-rending passage from jean anouilh to look forward to on these erudite pages later today.  also, fred may look forward to some sort of baked christmas treat -- or early birthday temptation, as he shares the 25th with christ as a birthing day. and, i'm sure, as you contemplate the horror of a second sandy hook anniversary without real change to gun control attitudes, much less legislation, you're looking forward to the sunday "news" shows explaining, as dr. phil so cutely named it, the "black and blue"disconnect.

oppression. [i just flashed on allen ludden, or his announcer, stage-whispering:  "the password is... 'oppression.'"]

a nod to provenance requires a hat tip to stephen fry, on whose twitter page i found this clip of the marvelous panti bliss:

© 2014 L. Ryan

It's important, so do it.

Quick, note the day and time:  I'm having a productive day.  Two loads of laundry, the weekly refilling of the med box, several psychological evaluations of the Feline Triumvirate, orientation of several new Marlinspike Hall Manor Gift Shoppe volunteers, coffee -- perfectly strong and I did not pour boiling water in my lap in its making!

Sure, there were errors, flukes, lots of pills on the floor, and the Gift Shoppe may be in retail peril, but there is an abundance of clean covers, ranging from light and kind to tender skin to heavy and cold repellent. None of the cats aberrant behaviors have improved but we have lowered alert levels to DefCon 2, hoping that we can continue to deescalate tensions and avoid Buddy killing Marmy, or Marmy shifting from clawing defense mode to slashing aggression.  Most of all, we would like Dobby to retain some fur, as when the little guy is stressed, he releases all of his hairy hairs, usually on my clean clothes.  And, if we put all our desires out there, well, we'd like him to shut up, as well. He's the Town Crier of our world and, honest to God, it sounds like a nonstop tirade of a lisped "Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!"

Ahem.  Yes, I'm having a day!

My right foot is probably as small as it's ever been in the past 12 years. If you ignore its purple and frigid state, well, hell, it almost looks like a doggone foot!

The claw phenomenon is, indeed, spreading to two fingers on my left hand, but rather than cry over that (we now cry for an hour when the lights go out at day's end), I am forcing that hand to do extra duties.  I suppose someone without CRPS would call the doctor.  I have been taught not to, trained better than a seal.  Oh, how to stave off the urge to balance a beach ball on my nose?

I am daring to see another Kaiser Permanente neurologist next Thursday.  Yesterday, if you had dared to ask, I'd have told you it was a hoop to be leaped through, or thrown through (by the neurologist, or Fred, perhaps... maybe even Lumpy, if he could work up the strength).  Today, I've decided to focus on researching these sudden and completely un-freaking-expected changes in my upper extremities.  Research as only I can.  I have awesome research powers, friends, and they, coupled with unerring insight, rarely lose me in a corn field.

Don't know where that came from, that whole "lose me in a corn field" thing, but I like it. So it stays.

So next Thursday, yes, we slough off the history of Kaiser Permanente's abysmal neurology department (though I hear that EAST of the Lone Alp, they have better staffing) and we politely make the focus saving my hand function.  The OT kept concentrating on the pain of it, not hearing my oft-repeated: "I can handle the pain... what I cannot handle is losing the use of my hands."

It's easier to focus on the amorphous and try to score points for ass-kissing empathy, sympathy, compassion rather than brainstorm with me how I am going to toilet myself, wash, and manipulate forks, knives, knobs, buttons, cats, Fred, paperwork, pens, computers, car doors, seat belts, coffee cups, telephones, and pills, pills, pills!

Much better to wheedle: "It must hurt a lot.  Does it hurt a lot?"

Button my shirt, bitch!
Dice the Holy Trinity of onion, bell pepper, and celery.  Or the required base to a magnificent, fragrant stir fry:  ginger, garlic, and several optional thirds -- onion, chilies... none of that to be confused with the saucing options.  Don't get excited, Therapist, about a perceived ease to the saucing, because the saucing involves mixing, and the opening of many tiny bottles, and the outpouring -- precise outpouring -- of fish sauce and sesame oil and the many variants of soy and chili and sweet/sour viscous liquids.
I had trouble washing my face last night and dropped my toothbrush in the toilet.

But that was last night, and the OT was Tuesday, and won't be seen again until a few hours after the neurologist next week!

I've a firm grip on this day, still.

Part of that vise-like hold has been enabled by merely turning off all the phones and watching a few episodes of what I call a soap opera, but Fred insists is a "drama series." Yay for solutions, because they're solutions!

Clearly, giving my brain, such as it is, and these hands, such as they are, access to a keyboard has not been conducive to what pop stars like Dr. Phil might call "self talk." Dr. Phil is a marketing genius and a professional fraud.  I know the difference between what I type and what I actually feel.

Harrumph.

Time to finish my chores, turn the phones back on, be an encouragement to Fred and the hulking, skulking cats.  The genetically indentured Domestic Staff Executive Committee has requested a meeting with the Haddock Labor Relations Board, and judging by the steely glint in a few eyes, there are more issues than territorial disputes and genetic engineering snafus on the table. I think, I am guessing, I assume... that they want a bump in salary, an expansion of benefits, and some minimization of their essential serfdom.

I could be wrong.

Last night, when I turned off the lamp beside this godawful hospital bed, after I threw the stupid washcloth gripped by my right claw all of three feet (after a full wind-up and high kick), before I picked the 90-minute "sleep" music option (which started with dear Simone's "Go to Hell"), I spent an hour crying.  I didn't time it, the hour is a guess.

All I could see was Lumpy's sweet face, his eyes gone deeper than deep seems possible, and dark, much darker than seems fair.  I don't see the two lumps he says are there -- in his skull, one on the left hairline and the other at the base of his jaw.  Granted the jaw is disfigured and I can actually see it, but I like to pretend that I don't, and that his well-trimmed beard just has an inexplicable scruffy area.

To me, he is beautiful, handsome.  And, damn it, other worldly.

Can I convince you, you who are as mortal as he is, that he does not deserve death, that the world needs him, that nothing will ever be the same when he dies?  That a whole generation of mediocre writers will not have the touchstone of his classroom f-bombs and hilarious illustrations of rhetorical fallacies by the citation of the authority of South Park and The Simpsons?  They won't learn the crucial life lesson, the crucible of working life, that he models when explaining, over and over: "I grade what you put in front of me."

You haven't seen him mime gold medal winning Olympic ski jumpers.  He's a little over 6' 4" and could launch himself off the icy ramp, and extend his upper body, straight as a rail, over his legs until his slightly Roman nose seemed (and therefore, was) mere inches from his skis.

A Normal Hill specialist, his split leg landings, with arms making delicate ballast adjustments, would be the envy of any world class orchestral conductor.  The arms part, not the leg part. Unless we're talking some sort of weirdly energetic orchestra conductor, or perhaps an afflicted one, suffering from neurological tics, Parkinson's, or Tourette Syndrome aggravated by the brass section, probably the tenor trombones.

So tears turned into giggles in the dark.  And each cat came by, politely following their peculiar rules of Buddy first, Marmy second, and -- everpresent, very somber -- little Dobby.  Dobby never leaves me when I cry, though he may position himself so as to be unseen.  On the top edge of the pillow, perched on the corner of the bedside table, alertly upright between my feet.  He didn't learn the "don't stare" lesson in kittenhood, so he stares, and mewls softly.

Like I said, the hour was just a guess.  I also visited with some other beloveds, before relaxing my mind into the recurring memory of me, seated on Lumpy's shoulders as he walked, slowly, from the shallow end of our swimming pool to the deep end.  Yes, that put him under water for about a third of the journey, but never did he hasten the pace, break the rhythm.  Sometimes the tipsy Happy Hour boozers at poolside noticed, sometimes they did not, but it was something to behold.

Well, I just promised Fred, The Castafiore, Sven and his son, Cabana Boy, a healthy dinner of roasted organic vegetables and some sort of fish.

A chance to wield knives and cavort with a very hot oven!  Now, THAT is what I call Occupational Therapy. No co-pay and a delicious pay off at the task's end.

Readers?  Love the ones you're with, and find ways to transmit, send, convey, and give away the love you have for those not within your wily grasp.  It's important, so do it.








© 2013 L. Ryan

as i crawl beneath the rug, and retune my piano...

I've been avoiding you, Dear Reader.  That's something of a compliment, as the avoidance is based on my assessment of your acumen.

It is no secret, my modus operandi in writing most blog posts.  There are a few topics whose past treatment requires continued treatment:

• CRPS breakthroughs
• CRPS in daily life (including humorous leitmotifs about do-it-yourself amputation and the joy of suicide) 
• Any findings in the case of lost child Lindsey Baum 
• The reliable turdification of José Ochoa (lately, I've investigated the immense amount of money wasted on him by government grants, but gastrointestinal responses have precluded publication of this research) 
• The scam CRPS / neuropathy treatment CALMARE / ScramblerTherapy (again, I've a half-written post on the hilarious background of its inventor and his woo-science, dedicated to the creation of a machine that spews electricity like a Fountain of Youth -- never mind the obvious idiocy of mixing water and electricity) 
• Oh, and should my nausea subside, I am overdue in checking in on where the good Dr. Scott Reuben is malpracticing, and in what way

For a bit, I would regularly rag on Phil McGraw and some of his weirder acolytes, and while that was a gratifying release for simmering undercurrents of sadism, I'm trying to stop feeding that easy-peasy awful part of myself.  Now I just follow their shenanigans when late night efforts at mindfulness and distraction via YouTube cat videos fail.  Besides, one day my vision cleared, and I discovered my gratitude for the Unweird friends made while cavorting with McGraw's Chronic Pain Support Group.

By the way, Dear Reader, you've no need to feign shock at my admission of sadism.  On a good day, it makes me something of a Juvenalian satirist.  On a bad day, okay, I get a slight titillation from asshats getting their due... but not to the extent of paraphilia, or a personality disorder. Ignorance drives me batty and I am daily thankful for my innate, unfailing superiority.

It's also no secret that my navel-gazing can get in the way of what might be decently mediocre pseudo-journalism.  I write more about suffering due to CRPS, osteomyelitis, lupus, and osteonecrosis -- all hilariously related -- than I do my ardent political leanings, or other areas of ardor.  Do I wish my knees were worn from kneeling at some other altar than that of the personal?  Oh, yes!

Referring to your acumen, again, Dear Reader, it's clear that this blog is an attempt at therapy, written in as lively a way as I can pull off so that no one will wander the side halls of detritus.  I am writing my way through the remains of a life, deeply sorry for having wasted it so, and therefore frequently embarrassed by my strung together words, the over-estimation of serendipitous thought caressing circumstance.

There are circumstantial caresses that became blessings -- some fleeting benedictions, some amazingly enduring beatific guffaws. People I've met online, mostly.  Writings I'd never thought to have read had not some virtual friend made of them succulent, enticing fare.

One of those blessings is my friend "Peaches," an actual author, a man of the world, familiar enough with life to inflict suggestions as if it were his prerogative (by virtue of being so old, I tell him.. or dream of telling him, one day... one sadistic, wonderrful day!).

Yes, that's right.  I want to meet Peaches.  As much as I want to meet TW, Carol, Diana, Joyce, Benita, Tom, Betty, Fresca, T, and even some who have wished me ill, but in an inspirational way.

Peaches calls me Irene.  I call him "Peaches" because of a phrase that someone stuck into mine head years ago, in a late afternoon patio conversation at a Telegraph Avenue trattoria.  My memory is muddled, but I believe we trampled over Shakespeare and T. S. Eliot before someone declared someone else, glass raised, "a prince, a peach, a pear."

Since that chilly afternoon, spent over perfect antipasto and ignored obligations, I've found no higher praise to offer other beings than that they were "a prince, a peach, a pear." Roasted peppers and marinated artichoke hearts, spiced meats and bursting tomatoes, there was neither peach nor pear in the offing on our rickety cast iron table, rocking the red wine.  So the phrase is of even more value, its provenance being so wondrously lost.  Sadly, it casts its own restrictions -- I never use it to praise, or shower with abundant love, women deserving such approbation.  It has become a sort of obscure pillow talk, the pillow partners more in tune with its vast smooch galore than with its elusive ancestry or culinary provenance.  The role of the house red, delivered in a series of carafes, probably merits further investigation.

I remember the walk home, to a brand new private apartment on one of Oakland's first streets to cross Telegraph, leaving behind Sather Gate, crossing Bancroft and the cafés, book stores, tables of dangling earrings, poseurs, beggars, travelling to home, paper trash swirling, our awareness of danger waking, coffee our first plan before grading.  Funny, but the guy walking with me never was candidate for prince, or peach, or pear.  A good writer and sometimes great poet, he was a fraud, and the essence of the laudatory phrase lies in the genuine.

So.
Right.
Ahem.

Peaches lives in New York City, the old fart.  He is a faithful friend, but that means, of course, frustration at my "here today, gone tomorrow" nature, a nature unaltered even by friendship or blood relation.  I've been under the radar, or, believe it or not, quite concise, these past few weeks.  Still, Peaches fires off an email every few days.

Like today:

Irene...........
Hi.............

In the dark here.... How're you doing?

P.

Bless his heart, Peaches reached out at a moment when I was navel-gazing, seriously lost, seeing no way out from neurological jokes and jerks, pain bad enough to create tears in a body seriously dehydrated from constant fever.  He just wanted an answer.  I wanted a rescue buoy, garrish orange against the cresting teal.

beware, peaches, i've been avoiding writing anyone.  why?  the proof is in my outdated packets of yeast, my bread that will not rise.  i am in a baguette phase.  i'm also heavily medicated at the moment, which means you should stop reading NOW, content to know that i remain irene. i've been promoted from 100 mcg of fentanyl to 150 mcg patches. the joke is that the pain is stronger but there's just no point in making that known.

but, to answer your concision explicitly:

hey, i am DOIN'.  i am DOIN' (that's southern) the best i can.  

very briefly, last week, fred and i concluded that it was up to each of us whether our respective day would be good or bad.  we crowed and strutted, convinced that no circumstance has the power to inflict a "bad" day.  harrumph -- we don't even know what a bad day IS. complain?  whimper?  moan or groan?  ha!  not us!

that lasted three days and then we took a break.

i'm fine, peaches.  frustrated, sad, guilty, tired -- all of which i shall put aside once the fredster rises from his eight layers of covers to take on the day.  yes, fred is a layer fanatic, something he said he learned about in both brooklyn winters and in the huge temperature variations of the ethiopian desert.

well, there is one thing that sucks.  my eyes are going bad again!  and not in any polite subtle way, either.  i had a brief period of being able to read again and was enjoying the literary send off into sleep, no matter how tedious the novel. we are both working our way through minette walters, a very hit and miss affair. i find her interesting when she lets her inner sociologist sing. when she aims at popular success, she's tedious.

                  

being able to read also meant a complementary tub of plain lowfat yogurt with frozen strawberries. it's become impossible for me to read well without the creamy tang of yogurt and the icy comfort of frozen fruit.

when reading goes, it's a musical bedtime, the lullaby a string of rolling stones' songs -- or, these days, the decemberists and early, easy-breezy, very cheesy brett dennen.  

last night was kind of wonderful, drifting off to phil ochs' "the party," which actually made me think of you... and a few other upper crust sorts, and the cocktail parties you must have both enjoyed and endured.

there's a funny aspect to last night's nocturne, the evocation of monastic hours --  in a completely messed up, annoying way -- beyond the cheapo-cheapo piano, designed to set the teeth on edge.  and then there's phil's voice.  hmm, best i move on, eh? 

some time ago, in asking around about phil ochs' "the party," one of my american lit professors recommended i read... tom wolfe's radical chic & mau-mauing the flak catchers.  

unlike my literati betters -- and that means everyone around me -- i suffered mental origami, a conflation of tom and thomas.  flashes of "golden moments," and so, i have to ask, have you read much tom wolfe?  i realize that the scales tip in favor of look-homeward-ish-ness than anything by the journalist author, who saw himself as a brutally honest zola.  and how many occasions have you had to smile politely at some idjit such as myself, mixing wolfe & wolfe, a heathen playing at americana?

so much happens so quickly in the brain, even a brain seeking sleep.

see? i'm DOIN'.  and while i admire concision, i live for word play... 

"And my shoulders had to shrug

As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano..."

all my best to you and yours, and apologies for ruminating all over your email. it should blot up easily with a paper towel. my last sentence ought to be the first:  how are YOU (and yours), sweet peaches?  

irene

(One hint to how the piano was made even more schmaltzy?  it was a series of plastic toy pianos...)

The Party

The fire-breathing rebels arrive at the party early
Their khaki coats are hung in the closet near the fur
Asking handouts from the ladies, while they criticize the Lords
Boasting of the murder of the very hands that pour
And the victims learn to giggle, for at least they are not bored

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

The hostess is enormous, she fills the room with perfume
She meets the guests and smothers them with greetings.
And she asks, "How are you" and she offers them a drink
The countess of the social grace, who never seems to blink
And she promises to talk to you if you promise not to think

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

The beauty of the hour is blazing in the present
She surrounds herself with those who would surrender
Floating in her flattery, she's a trophy-prize, caressed
Protected by a pretty face, sometimes cursed, sometimes blessed
And she's staring down their desires
While they're staring down her dress

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

The egos shine like light bulbs, so bright you cannot see them
Blind each other blinder than a sandbox
All the fury of an argument, holding back their yawns
A challenge shakes the chandeliers, the selfish swords are drawn
To the loser go the hangups, to the victor go the hangers on

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

They travel to the table, the host is served for supper
And they pass each other down for salt and pepper
And the conversation sparkles as their wits are dipped in wine
Dinosaurs on a diet, on each other they will dine
Then they pick their teeth and they squelch a belch saying
"Darling, you tasted divine"

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

The wallflower is waiting, she hides behind composure, composure
She'd love to dance and prays that no one asks her
Then she steals a glance at lovers while her fingers tease her hair
And she marvels at the confidence of those who hide their fears
Then her eyes are closed as she rides away with a foreign legionnaire

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

Romeo is reeling, counting notches on his thighbone
Searching for one hundred and eleven
And he's charming as a child as he leads you to his web
Seducing queens and gypsy girls in the boudoir of his head
Then he wraps himself with a tablecloth and pretends he is a bed

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

Oh, the party must be over, even the losers are leaving
But just one doubt is nagging at my caustic mind
So I snuck up close behind me and I gave myself a kiss
And I led myself to the mirror to expose what I had missed
There I saw a laughing maniac who was writing songs like this

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

-- Phil Ochs




Follow my blog with Bloglovin

i love my go-to-guy

my eyes are almost swollen shut from self-pity, since my self-pity, combined with my rising fever and 9.9 out of 10 ranking on the retarded pain scale, equate to nonsensical tears but my mind is relatively unburdened, thanks to an hour and a half spent with dear, sweet, smart, inventive, superior go-to-guy, my "concierge" doctor that you'll have to shoot me to give up.  yes, i am poor -- and advocate living within one's means -- but i have budgeted for what i consider a compelling necessity, a medical gate-keeper.

anyway, his eyes lit up as he hit on an idea of how to work our peculiar situation and magic with the HMO i am now enrolled in, and with which he is not affiliated.  but the flat fee that i pay each year to "retain" him, well, it retains him.  in dire circumstances, and we are familiar with them, having him around... pays off.

anyway, we went over blood work, we devised a plan to so mesmerize the HMO and the physician i will have to choose in their network, and then...

we decided it was time for me to have a hospital bed with a trapeze. that will make things easier for me, but is one of those moments, you know?  the "oh, yeah, i am ready for disease and disability to reduce me a bit farther." reduce me, constrict me... also, though, on that sliver of pragmatism to which i cling -- it's a change that won't reduce me to tears when i think of how to turn over or sit up or, the ultimate!  when i think of how to both sit up, pivot so as to sit on the side of the bed, then stand and walk to the bathroom.

i went to my doctor's appointment without having brushed my teeth, much less showering.  that caused mucho boo-hooing on my part.  i am nothing if not ridiculous.

it's going to take a while to get the new doctors on board ("you realize they are going to take one look at your history and my summary of the last few years, and either take off running, screaming, or try to reinvent the wheel by ordering every test under the sun, don't you?") and so it will take a while before my carefully put together bedroom gets torn apart.  captain haddock is going to have a cow.  marlinspike hall's beautiful and antiquated décor -- and by "antiquated,"  i mean full of gorgeous and one-of-a-kind antiquities -- has never been so abused.  maybe the haddock corporation will see this as the last straw and put me and my belongings in a pile by the barn, just beyond the moat, and the reach of the drawbridge.  maybe the carnie rehab facility, right now mostly limited to cirque du soleil and local freak show addicts of the finest and most acrobatic kind... will take me in.  i could be a kind of barn mother hen.  and heck, who knows what monumental one-of-a-kind gymnastic moves i can come up with when provided with a hospital bed and a trapeze? eh?

see?  it's all rather too much to take in.

so we're cooking a chicken pizza, and plan on watching something mindless. dr. phil, or one of the multitude of law and orders.  maybe a cold case, or judge judy.

go-to-guy also rapidly and kindly filled out my POLST form, so i am covered -- live and let die!

my mind is jiggling like jello.

© 2013 L. Ryan

Jackie and Mel: Think of the Things You Can't Remember

On 24 January 2013, over at Phil McGraw's half-dead blog, Turning Point, a viewer wrote in wondering where she might find a place to discuss chronic pain issues on his website.  The Chronic Pain Message Board used to be my morning cyber café spot, where I'd have my first few shots of the day with good friends sharing similar circumstances.  Granted, when there were no fires to put out, we mostly chatted and gossiped and braced ourselves for the coming day with bad jokes, more chat, and wisecracks at the expense of spouses, caretakers, children, pets, and, occasionally, Phil Himself.

No one answered her, so I did, on the 31st.  There is no more Chronic Pain Message Board community.  Whether that's good or bad, I can't say.  I maintain four friendships, of diverse type and degree, from that wild coffee klatch bunch, and keep track of two others.  There's one woman from the old board, though, for whom we maintain several food-rigged traps, on either side of the approach to the drawbridge, even one on the inside ring of the moat.  The carnies and Cirque du Soleil addicts in recovery, who lodge in the barn during most of their detox and rehab, keep an eye out for her.  Which just proves that every online support group has its share of potentially dangerous weirdos.  Recent rumors have Lashawnna as deceased, but I'll believe it when I pry her wireless mouse out of those cold, dead, con artist hands.

Um, yeah.  So this very nice woman imploring Dr. Phil to explain the realities and needs of people with Chronic Pain ended up just getting me, an anti-McGraw fanatic, recommending that she give the insanely cheerful Depression Group a go, since depression and pain go hand and hand, go round and round.  I'm sure that wasn't terribly helpful.  Everyone really just wants to hear the sexy deep tones of that near tennis pro, Phillip Calvin McGraw.  Here's a recent photo of the man warning everyone to keep their eyes on the ball in the back of the turnip truck while they flip those four-dimensional Texas corncakes -- after he evidently got distracted up at the net:

Courtesy of the DrPhil Twitter Feed

And I renew my oft-noted characterization of Bubba McGraw as a metrosexual.  Look at those finely plucked brows.  Maybe the Chronic Paineur looking for help also saw it, and got a chuckle, released a few endorphins, and felt a bit better.

Writing that brief response on his blog made me nostalgic for those good old days, when I had coffee with Ms. Diana-With-An-H and checked in with Ms. Carol.  So I went digging for some archival memories.  But the very first page I turned up had me remembering things a bit differently.

It is people who either have no resources or who don't know how to use them... It is people who have no medical options and begin to lose touch with reality, hoping for a chubby Texan celebrity talk show host (known to believe that most everything somatic is caused by heavy metal toxicity) to come loping along on a worn out swaybacked white stallion to save them -- for free... It is people like myself who are desperate for any kind of relief, no matter how ridiculous... that make up the demographic of vapid online support groups.

But buried in there, as frequently as on every other page of archival material, were plaintive calls for help from folks usually never heard from again.

What happened to Jackie, whose Mother typed her entry for her, as she could not?
And Mel, who wrote her very first post as an answer to Jackie, where is she now?

As someone I once knew often urged me:  "Think of the things you can't remember."

Without too much further ado [!], here are Jackie and Mel's post from McGraw's former Chronic Pain Message Board, both posted on 5 September 2005.  Jackie, like so many people who manage only to post once -- that once taking a lot out of them -- thought she was writing directly to "Dr. Phil."

I've tried to eliminate/change any identifying details, like last names, ages, regions -- but nothing can erase the pathos, and the knowledge that there are thousands upon thousands of other Jackies and Mels, who feel as if they've nowhere to go, and that no one is listening.

NOTE:  Jackie refers to Dr. H and his clinic (obviously not in Nicaragua, but that's all I could come up with!), plus his infernal website, and I'm sorry to say that Dr. H turned out to be a hoax, even doing prison time for Medicaid/Medicare fraud.  But this is how precious hope is kept alive -- and cruelly toyed with -- for many people with difficult diseases.

JACKIE
September 5, 2005 4:27 pm EDT

Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS)
Hi. My name is Jackie V. At the time, I was 18 years old and had just bought my first car. I had a boyfriend who loved me and lots of great friends. I had a great job that I was really good at and paid well, and I had pride, dignity, confidence and humility. I guess you could say that I was just a normal girl, but there was nothing normal about how my life was about to drastically change forever!  
I had been waitressing and hostessing at a nice restaurant for months where on May 4, 2002, I had a minor injury. The doctor said I had hundreds of tiny shards of glass in the palm of my right hand (the hand that I write with). He said not to worry, that everything would be fine. But it wasn’t! Suddenly 1 week later, I had excruciating pain and extreme swelling and discoloration throughout my hand and wrist all the way up to my right elbow. I could barely even move my wrist or fingers without crying out in pain!  
When Workers Compensation Board got involved, right from the start they didn’t believe that all the pain and swelling was from the accident at work. So, I was passed from doctor to doctor to doctor, as each one would give up on me – not knowing what else to do. Most of them resorted to pumping me full of drugs and at one point, I was taking some medications because of the side effects of other medications. Honestly, I have probably taken more medications than about 20 people would take in their entire lifetime (and it’s only been about 29 months so far)!  
So finally, the diagnosis – for awhile it was Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, then it was Severe Tendonitis, then Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy (RSD), then Fibromyalgia, hours later it was RSD with secondary Fibromyalgia, THEN it was all in my head and the latest diagnosis is Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS), which is the exact same thing as RSD. You know, my doctors spent so many months trying to figure out what was wrong with me, what it was called. And it got to a point where I really didn’t give a flying crap (sorry) what my disease is called, all I want is for someone to make it go away!!!  
(I wanted to give you a bit of info on CRPS so that you had some sort of idea of what I’m dealing with.)  
Complex Regional Pain Syndrome is a progressive disease of the Sympathetic Nervous System, an abnormal sympathetic reflex. It can follow a minor trauma (like a fall or sprain), a break or fracture, a sharp force injury (like a knife or bullet wound), heart problems, infections, surgery, spinal injuries or disorders or other major traumas. CRPS is a devastating, disabling disease that has completely robbed me of my ability to function because of extreme, severe pain that is constant and never-ending. There has not been even one tiny moment in the last 29 months when I have not been in terribly horrible pain! If it is caught, and most importantly correctly treated early, then most CRPS patients respond well to treatment. But in my case (and like so many others) it wasn’t, so I was left to try and cope with horrendous pain, impaired motor functions, body tremors, dystonia, full body muscle spasms, sympathetic nervous system dysfunction, extreme swelling, skin color changes, skin rashes, fevers, increased inner body temperature, sores, sensory changes, hypersensitivity, short-term memory problems, emotional distress, frequent migraines, daily headaches, insomnia and bone loss. So sadly, (believe it or not), ALL of these symptoms have become a part of my daily life! CRPS also causes depression, NOT the other way around like most doctors like to think!!!  
Ultimately, severe and disabling pain is the hallmark of this frustrating disease. Although countless doctors in Canada disagree, another hallmark of this disease is its ability to spread from one affected area, to another area, or in some cases, like mine, from one affected area through the entire body. As a result, few patients, like me, have total body CRPS and are severely incapacitated, in fact, the Mayo clinic has found that only 4% of patients get total body CRPS. I can’t walk, I can’t wheel myself in my wheelchair (because my right hand doesn’t work – I can’t move my fingers or wrist), so if no one is home and I have to go to the bathroom, then I have to crawl. I have to crawl on my stomach from the TV room to the bathroom and back. So, when it comes to be this late in the course of this disease, treatments are rarely effective and people like me are forced to cope with intense chronic pain!  
One thing that really bothers me is the fact that there is a huge lack of knowledge about CRPS, even among medical specialists. In fact, CRPS isn’t even taught in Canadian medical schools, so some doctors really believe that CRPS does not even exist! I believe it is only through the right education that we can stop improper diagnosis and treatments. I desperately need to make the public aware of this unbearably painful and crippling disease because it affects millions and millions of people throughout the entire world! It’s actually most common in people 40 to 60 years old, but recently doctors have found that it is now affecting people who are younger and younger (even as young as 3 years old).  
I guess the most devastating aspect of this illness is how it affects every single part of my life. At the very beginning of this letter, I mentioned some important things that I had before my accident, and now because of this stupid disease, ALL those things are gone and the scary thing is, is that I may never get those things back again! The really frustrating part is that physicians, other health care professionals, Workers Compensation Board workers, employers and especially friends, lovers and family members simply don’t understand just how much I am really suffering. They just don’t understand, they don’t get that I am in pain ALL day, EVERY SINGLE day.  
Not only is my disease extremely difficult to live and try to cope with every day, but I also have to deal with the many side effects of all of the medications I need to take (like weight gain – I was 115 pounds before my injury, and now I’m 257 pounds, also there’s dizziness, extreme nausea, major constipation, blurred vision, loss of appetite, hallucinations, completely passing out, even more insomnia and dopiness). As a result of all this crap (sorry again), I live, pretty much, without hope, in depression, anxiety, anger and fear! Pain, depression, being reduced to living in a wheelchair, not being able to dress or bathe myself and basically not being able to do anything a normal 22 year old should be able to do for herself results in even more anger, fear and anxiety. Complex Regional Pain Syndrome may not be physically fatal (like cancer or MS) and to you this might sound weird, but CRPS is definitely emotionally, mentally and spiritually deadly!  
Anyways there are 2 very important reasons why I wrote you this letter. First, I truly believe that we really need to educate our doctors (especially in Canada) about Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (most importantly, we need our doctors to be more open-minded and willing to learn), and I think it starts with making the public aware, letting everyone know about CRPS (knowledge is power, right!). This illness, that is just as debilitating and (in different ways) devastating as cancer, is barely even known about throughout almost all Canadians, let alone Canadian medical professionals! As a result, so many CRPS patients are misdiagnosed and mistreated for years and years! You know, the year is 2004 and this disease was around throughout both World Wars and STILL hardly anyone even knows this illness exists, let alone what it’s about, except for maybe, at the most, a handful of doctors. But the point is that there is no cure for CRPS! And if you think about it, most doctors don’t even know about Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, so they’re not even beginning to look for a cure! Maybe it’s because CRPS isn’t fatal like cancer, but honestly, from my heart, in May 2004 my grandmother died from cancer (colon cancer) and I wish to God that it could have been me!!! For the last year I have been praying to God that I had cancer, because if I had cancer then that would mean that I would get to die. It means that there would be an END, an end to all of my suffering and all my pain. When the pain is at its worst (and that’s pretty much all of the time, in fact the MaGill University’s pain index states that CRPS is the highest form of pain there is) I beg God to take me up to heaven. I tell Him that I can’t do it anymore, that the pain is just too much and I’m so tired of fighting, please take me up to heaven with You! Now you’re probably thinking I’m some suicidal lunatic, but I’m not and (unfortunately) I love my mother way too much to do that sort of thing. Studies have shown that 50% of people with CRPS attempt suicide.  
The other reason I wrote you this letter is because there actually is a tiny ray of hope for me. His name is Dr. H and he has a clinic in Nicaragua devoted to treating people with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome. And the amazing thing is that he is getting amazing results! He has not found a cure, but he is able to (in a great number of cases) reduce pain and increase mobility. Basically he’s able to give people their lives back! Also, Dr. H has even been able to put some of his patients into REMISSION where a patient’s pain is somewhere in between tolerable and non-existent! Some patients can stay in remission for years and years, but it would take barely nothing at all (like a sprain or a fall) and then BOOM, it all can be taken away! All the pain, headaches, spasms, hypersensitivity, swelling and insomnia are back and you can barely even move. You’re back in hell again! I don’t know about you, but I would definitely rather spend even just 1 week in remission with tolerable pain and have it all taken away, than being where I am today, in constant pain! Dr. H is doing excellent, amazing work with CRPS and it sounds like the doctors in Nicaragua know more about CRPS as well but we still need much more education! We desperately need to educate our Canadian doctors (most of them really don’t have a clue!) and it needs to start happening NOW! Basically, we need HELP! ALL CRPS patients need help. I desperately need help!!!  
The truth is that I really need to get to that clinic! Seriously, I think it’s my only chance at having some sort of normal, happy life! And of course, the only thing stopping me is money. For 1 treatment at Dr. H’s clinic, it costs $12,000 and you’re supposed to go every 6 months (but the price gets lower each time you go), plus the price of the plane rides there and back, and because I can’t take care of myself, my mother would have to come with me, as well, one treatment lasts a week and you can’t stay at the clinic, so my mother and I would need a place to stay during my treatment. It just all seems so overwhelming and impossible and we just don’t have anything anywhere near what that would cost! My mother is a single parent (still supporting her 2 young adults) and was just laid off a couple of months ago and (so far) hasn’t been successful at finding a job yet, so she’s been trying to make sure we have enough money to survive on for the next few months, so finding the kind of money needed for even 1 treatment is definitely IMPOSSIBLE for us! I know I’ve said it 100 times but I really do need your help! I just turned 22 (I’m supposed to have a place of my own, be working, studying for school and hanging out with friends) and now, to make matters worse, I’ve been informed that if we’re (my mom and I) not able to take “proper” care of myself with the help I have now (1 home care worker, for 2 hours, from Monday to Friday) then I will be forced into an institution. And believe me when I tell you this, I’ll die before I go to a place like that! My family, most of all my mother is the reason why I’m still here, why I’m still fighting this thing, why I’m still sane and if they were taken away from me, I really don’t know what I would do or how I would cope!!! Honestly, my mother is my best friend! She has been so strong and so supportive throughout all of this, and even though she knows that I might have CRPS the rest of my life (as bad as it is now), whenever I cry or the pain is really bad or it’s Tuesday, my mother always tells me “We’ll get through this together, we’ll get through this together!“ I desperately need her and my brother in my immediate space for as long as humanly possible so, that clinic in Nicaragua is my only hope! I’m desperate for help! Seriously, I need to find a way to get to that clinic or else 2 things will most likely happen:  
1. I’ll get even worse and have to be put into an institution.  
OR  
2. I’ll spend the rest of my life in immobilizing, excruciating pain, not being able to do anything for myself and praying every day for God to take me to heaven.   
Damn that’s depressing!  
  
Well, I realize this has been an extremely long letter and I wanted you to know just how much I really appreciate you reading this! For someone like you to take the time out of your busy day just to read my letter, it really means a lot to me and I can’t thank you enough! I want to make sure that you know that I wrote this letter because I want people to know what Complex Regional Pain Syndrome is so that hopefully one day even 1 person is in less pain (or NO pain) because a doctor happened to be watching TV or heard something from a friend and learned something. That would be SO amazing – even if this letter helped only 1 person! That’s why I wrote this letter, so that I might get the chance (the honor) to help others! If there’s anything you could do to help me, I would be forever (and ever and ever...) grateful, and I must say again THANK YOU for taking the time for me and my letter!!  
From: Desperate for help  
Jackie V  
   
P.S. For more information on Complex Regional Pain Syndrome you can go to www.--------
(This is Dr. H’s web site packed with tons of information.)  
   
If you wish to contact me, please feel free to leave a message on my e-mail at:  
jacqulynn@-------------
   
Note from Jackie’s mother:  
I have typed this exactly how it was written. It’s important also to note that Jackie has taught herself how to write with her left hand! The entire note taking from all of the research, the original draft, rough and good copies were all written with her left hand through spasms, swelling, cramping and pain over the past 11 months!   
This letter in and of itself has been over two years in Jackie’s thought process. What precipitated this letter into taking form was the devastating news of my mother being diagnosed with cancer and having four to six months to live. Jackie felt an incredible sense of urgency during this time. We were not able to attend “Grandma’s” funeral due to Jackie’s illness.  
In closing, I can only say that Jackie has so much love and compassion in her heart. She cries when she sees a child or an animal hurting. All of her hopes and dreams are but distant memories! She wanted to become a police officer so she could help people! Now her goal is to somehow help one person, just one, to have less pain! This letter is such an incredible accomplishment for Jackie and I am so very proud of her!!  

 A few hours later, she got a reply from...

MEL
September 5, 2005 7:47 pm EDT


to jackie!
I... feel your pain. My RSD is spreading fast, on my next visit I have to discuss with my doctors the chronic migraines and facial/jaw/mouth pain I am now experiencing. I also have my teeth getting weaker, and chipping, but cannot afford a dentist as I am hardly able to pay my dr and shrink.  
You are completely right, more people MUST know about this, especially the doctors who think you are just crazy or a drug seeker. I am dealing with a pain dr right now who does not prescribe narcotics, as I am still in phase I. My fiancee does not know if he can deal with this for the rest of our lives, so our wedding is on hold for now. I would be suicidal myself except for my son, who is 8. I cannot leave him!!! I am 29, and I am in tears thinking that this happened to you at such a young age, as mine has progressed only since 2003. My RSD started in my shoulder and neck, and has moved into my back, other shoulder, both arms/elbows/hands and left leg. It scares me that I am now having symptoms in my face and right leg..... 
I sincerely wish I could help you and wish you the best, if you need someone to talk to please feel free to email me at melbor@xxxxxxxxx  
Your letter is powerful and I hope you have had your mom send it to EVERYONE she can!!! 
I am so tired of being dismissed.... 
I will pray for you, Gentle hugs-Mel 

Top Searches: And the Pride Goeth...

Perhaps what I choose to write about is superfluous.

These are my top search terms for the week, as recorded by Blogger Stats.  There are exactly eight that relate to topics I care about, and thought I had addressed in my admittedly confused and confusing style... but c'mon, readers are supposed to do a little work, too.

That's always been my belief.
Perhaps my belief is wrong.
Perhaps what I choose to write about is superfluous.

However, it is also true that I care too much.
I am beginning to write again for the pleasure of it.
I am beginning to feel the awakening of ugly hubris, pouty pride.

I recognize that I am confusing, and that I will label what I write as intricate, complicated, detailed, and demanding rather than spend the time to clean up my prose.

But, for the umpteenth time, I ask you: Whose blog is it, anyway?  
And, yes, I'll try to get this thin-skinned pride thing under control.

The one I really want to understand, though, is "neuron injera l'alcool." Any ideas?  If the searcher has become so enamored of my brilliant posts as to now be a regular Dear Reader, maybe s/he will leave me an explanatory comment?

anatidaephobia duck
bianca castrafiori
buddy kitty
cat heimlich maneuver
chico state
charles joseph whitman
cibulkova ass
claymation porn
coach k 903
crps
cushingoid
desert como
dr. jose ochoa
dr. phil divorce
finally theme song
georges prosper remi
happy birthday carolina tarheel
hole ketamine 
http://xxxpornoestremis.com
illuminated s
jackson browne
jackson browne 2012
kama sutra
kamasutra
ketamine treatments stony brook hospital
laura becket
madeleine 
maroloinespike hall
monopoly game pieces
moulinsart
mugshot celebrity
naked veterinarian calendar
neuron injera l'alcool
oregon nerve centre ochoa
rashad evans
rashad evans house
rashad evans wallpaper
red
rsd
ruthie rader
serena black ass
soup nazi
syldavian klow restaurant images
taiji
taiji dolphins
taiji japan
thomas ravenel marrie
uglyiest
vit c crps
wal-marts
xxxsex pakistani

Please Help Billy

Billy and his three grandsons

I was just getting ready for bed when I made my last Twitter rounds and saw this:

Joyce Ann Long ‏@ann_joyce50

not what I wanted to hear, the nurse said Billy is on a decline, and there would be more of these episodes

Details

5hJoyce Ann Long ‏@ann_joyce50

having to get the nurse out here, Billy is not acting right, I cant get him in the bed.

Details

CLICK HERE FOR BILLY'S FUNDRAZR   

I hope Joyce, Billy's wife, doesn't mind -- I'm stealing part of her blog posted on the Dr Phil website.  I think it helps us know him better, and if you've been on the fence about donating a few dollars to their FundRazr effort, maybe this will help you make up your mind and give a little.


I got Billy to eat just a little bit earlier which is better than not eating at all.

It is so hard to watch him each day knowing how much pain he has and not being able to do anything. Since August 13th when he came home from the hospital he has lost 30 more pounds so that is a total of 55 lbs.  He has had such a hard life already.  He has been abandoned by parents that should never have been parents (there were 4 kids one died of a drug overdose before I met Billy) when he was very small. Him and his brother apparently went to a foster home and orphanage (his other brother the one that passed on and his sister went to a foster home in Hickory) where his uncle found them and took them in, but from the stories I have been told Billy was alsway being thrown out due to his undiagnosed schizophrenia, so he has been homeless a lot, living on the streets and eating out of trashcans.  

He joined the Army the day he turned 18 and was stationed in Germany for a couple years. He was 22 when he was diagnosed with schizophrenia at Fort Bening, Georgia. He has been married once before to a woman that apparently was quite abusive to him. His sister said she was always calling him names and belittleing him and smacking him

One of the things I always got so mad at was him giving his money away, but his sister said he has done that all his life too. He would work (when he lived with his sister and before becoming disabled) and one time he heard this woman talking about needing money to feed her kids, he just got paid that day, cashed his check, kept a few dollars for himself and gave the rest to her. Libby said he was always like that, he would come home on payday and she would ask him about his check and he would say he gave it to someone that needed it more than he did.

Thought I would just share a little bit about him, he has his ways but for the most part he is really a good guy, always worried about everyone else, he still gives his money away although not as much. He has had a habit of giving everyone an allowence, he has to make sure Misty, Christina, Brian, Aric, Christopher and Shawna gets 10 to 20 dollars each,  every month. He even gave my brother money when he lived with us. I told him no wonder I couldnt get rid of anybody, he was paying them to live with us.  I dont fuss at him now for doing it, its his disability and as long as I can pay the bills he can give it away if he wants to.   There has been plenty of times we have had to borrow money (almost every month) the last week of the month to make it to payday and I would tell him that if he wouldnt give everything away we wouldnt have to do that, but he never listened, he would still give it away anyway.


Please donate what you are able -- Joyce cares not just for her husband, but really, she sees to the welfare of her mother, one of her daughters (disabled), her three (hyperactive!) grandsons, another daughter in her senior year of high school, and deals with a drug-addicted sister and brother who have an innate sense of when to strike for sympathy.  Then there are the twin daughters of the aforementioned sister, who are now also into drugs, and appear to have developed eating disorders.  

Their needs are great but I honestly believe you and I can help, as much as money can help, and prayers and intentions offered to the universe and God.

CLICK HERE TO GO TO BILLY'S FUNDRAZR PAGE.

Smoking Tweets From The Loon

i've referenced the loon over at phil mcgraw's web site several times.  the loon i am referring to is the one who is so disturbed as to think herself a member of dr. philly-poo's family -- his actual family and his extended one on television.  for all i know, she's cast herself as oprah's long lost older sister.

i've been posting some over there in support of a friend and also have been getting some general pleasure out of it, meeting some new people, renewing old friendships.

someone put the old bug in my ear... and i discover that now the loon is blaming my temporary use of an avatar depicting a "jaundiced eye" as a purposeful planting of an "evil eye" -- that subsequently caused her stress, enough stress to bring on a case of psychogenic bell's palsy.

i know that giving her the attention she is craving doesn't help matters. but it keeps my brains from splattering all over the ceiling.  i threw her a bone a while back, admitting to being her personal bully, but you know what?  i lied.  i bully what she represents -- narcissism, racism, classism, an elitism not natural but cultivated, like a perfect pearl.  she's not any more mentally ill than most of us -- she is the embodiment of the munchausen syndrome, but the good baron's malady aimed at society at large.  well, and at me.

if i had the power to inflict anything upon her via my choice of twitter or fake-ass mcgraw's website avatars, trust me, i'd not choose mamby-pamby bell's palsy.  maybe psyche-crippling humility, maybe droplets of hot wax on the pollyanna backdrop of her honeyed bullshit... but no, not bell's palsy.  that's like giving permission to a bilge machine to keep on churning out that goddamn bilge.

so thanks be to god that my avatars are not imbued with powers of any sort.  at present, for twitter purposes, i am using this mesmerizing placard as evil avatar:



anyway, may it please the court, here are the smoking tweets. to wit to woo:


30 Oct THE LOON
@DrPhil Do anti-bully pledge show for ALL who watch UR show & are members of UR website. Bullied online by Dr. Phil Website members twice...


30 Oct THE LOON
@DrPhil Too, request moderators to notice odd profile pictures chosen by bullies. Commonality of bullies is to choose "Evil Eye" profile pic


30 Oct THE LOON
@DrPhil One person bullying me online THREE YEARS chose "evil eye" profile pic on UR website. Due to stress got Bell's Palsy October 5, 2012


30 Oct THE LOON
@DrPhil After I blocked bully here immediately stalked me to UR website sporting "evil eye" pic. Bullies often use pics etc. to bully online


30 Oct THE LOON
@DrPhil Same bully who stalked me to URwebsite SUM2012 put mean note on my youtube Bday video did for U. UR staff asked for Bday videos 2010

ADDENDUM:  Thursday, 15 November 2012 -- I feel obliged, given my superpowers as expressed by my profile picture over at Twitter, to report that I have changed it once again.  Mwa mwa ha ha!  There is, however, once again, an "eye" connection, but one that you'd not discern without this freely given confession.  It's a photo taken by one of my brothers of my grandfather.  He, like me, went blind from glaucoma. (I exaggerate, I'm not blind yet.  Granddaddy, however, was blind as a bat.)  Still, he knew his land so well that he could check on every crop, every tree, every bird feeder, even sightless.  Of course, he also once fired a gun at his brother-in-law -- who was so obnoxious that not too many people got upset about it.  More importantly, he missed.  Then, too, there was the terrifying spectacle of him mowing his full acre front lawn... on a riding mower.  In this photo, he was checking, I suppose, whether the tree needed pruning -- which he'd likely accomplish with a freaking machete.  But the bottom line, here, is that despite the leitmotif of THE EYE reoccuring... this is just a picture of an old man I loved:

*****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     

oddly enough, my first use of the jaundiced eye image was in a post called "Internet Con Artists: A Cautionary Tale."

Dr. Phil's Moderators Unveiled (Kinda Like Romney's Tax Returns)

I've no good way to explain it, why I've returned to posting occasionally over at Dr. Phil dot com -- except that there are some people who also post there about whom I cannot seem to stop caring.

Man, that sounds stilted.  There are some people there I can't seem to stop caring about.

But I am hated, because I don't disguise my disgust for Phil McGraw and his Brand.  Because I get angry -- really, really angry -- when the "moderators" censor every word, pull posts seemingly at random, have a first trimester barely-there sense of humor, and especially when they underwrite those people whose mental health status is circling the drain.  They encourage people who are frankly delusional and paranoid, instead of intervening or supplying the "best in the world" type of assistance that only a Phil McGraw could.

Anywho... (Did you know that I've recently been introduced to a woman whose real name is Cindy Lou Who?  I kid you not!)  Anywho... several other posters have been miffed by the censorship and have hesitantly spoken up about it.  Yes, I AM criticizing the hesitancy of their "J'accuse..." -- In case you haven't noticed, I'm lately a huge fan of "manning up" and clanging your brass balls, whether you have to purchase them or whether they're organically all yours.  I've had it with temerity.

Temerity kills people.

Go ahead, ask me how I know.  I dare ya.

Oops.  I am transferring the anger that fuels my writing over yonder onto my Gentle Readers here, safe within the daub-and-wattle of Marlinspike Hall (it's mostly stone masonry, actually), here in the Western regions of the Lone Alp, all wrapped up in the phenomenal Tête de Hergé.  Here, where we exhale evil humours out of our nares and inhale the sweet end products of the algae in The Moat.  It is, in fact, the prevalence of our choleric, melancholic, sanguine, and phlegmatic contributions that form a protective ring of basic rarefied sputum around The Manor.  We're still working on the algae.

The four temperaments (Clockwise from top right: choleric; melancholic; sanguine; phlegmatic).

There is probably some rule, maybe even some law, some Terms of Usage bit of blather that should prevent me from republishing the stuff below.  "Ha!"  I say.  "Ha!"  I take the risk for one reason, and one reason alone. One of the moderaters deigned to respond to my moaning, groaning post... and tried to use MOLIERE against moi!  Oh, the joy in MoiLand!

Anyway, this is how twitty, twittified, and ridiculous things are in Phil Territory.  Oh, and would one of you be so kind as to be in charge of collecting money for bail?  Thankyouverymuch. Please note, Lawyers of Doctor Feel, that I have protected all identities but my own.  Also, La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore and her Lover Sven, along with Sven's quite costaud young studly son, Cabana Boy -- they all know where you live.  Yeah, that's right... 

***********************************************************************************************************

Surprise, Surprise

Replied By: X on Oct 5, 2012, 9:53PM

Wow, big surprise, another post disappears..  If you cant post about your feelings, about depression then why have a board on depression????
If the mods feel that somewhere in the post there may be inappropiate things, take it out, I am sure you can edit, but why remove the whole entire post???    And if the post is erased then we should be offered the courtesy of an email (because you have everyones in their profile) explaining why it was inappropriate and erased.

Mary:: Made a post earlier this evening, expressed my sorrow at the loss of your neighbor but big surprise, it disappeared...

Mods, what's going on?

Replied By: Z on Oct 5, 2012, 11:23PM

Posts are disappearing. Is there a glitch in the system or something? While it's understandable that some posts may need to be deleted it is VERY upsetting for some. It makes it very hard to support someone when the posts they write gets deleted.Is it possibly because our board is being featured?


I do get the fact that you want people to stay on topic but when we take the time to type posts only to come back here to find them missing it actually CAUSES depression because it's like we are being told in OUR safe place that what we think is NOT important. Please put yourselves in our place? Please put yourselves in the new people's place? How would you feel if you came here seeking support only to find your post was deleted? How can I help others when I can't see their posts? Depressed people usually cannot stay on one topic at a time. Depressed people give up easily (sad but true). Perhaps if at all possible should you feel the need to delete a post you could reply to the post first to give the poster a chance to edit it before you do? Otherwise we could lose even more members or potential members.You never know what someone who is depressed might do. Er DON'T worry I'm NOT talking about me! I'm just curious because I've seen a couple of posts disappear that were not offensive at all. 

"what's going on?" is a good question      

Replied By: profderien on Oct 6, 2012, 7:59AM - In reply to Z

i join (once again) voices with mary and joyce -- moderation seems almost like a game, a catch-as-catch-can kind of endeavor.


on the one hand, there is the impression that the moderators are overwhelmed with work.  i imagine they are, since it has been decided that every word, every inference, every emotion, every vent needs to be vetted by... whomever these moderators are.  so occasionally, we write something, it appears, then disappears, we bark and complain, and then, "poof" -- it reappears.  because the mods are so weighed down with the work of censorship.


on the other hand, there is what i *know*.  when i am critical, i don't get published.  when i am too direct, i don't get published.  should i suggest that the mods/drphil are coddling some mentally ill people who need help instead of coddling?  shazaam!  my posts are in the outer atmosphere.  should i simper, kiss butt, write a poem, light a candle?  no problem!


but this is a place for people with problems.  so stop censoring the problems, they're real!  it is kind of funny, since you have, in the past, let people go on and on for months, even years, scamming other support group participants with sob stories that the moderators apparently ate up with relish.. i would refer you to a post about that on the old chronic pain board, but that board has been eliminated. (if people would just buy all of frank lawlis' books, get tested for heavy metals, there would be no chronic pain, right?)

the users can tell who is real and who is not, and eventually can work it out amongst themselves -- better than can the moderators?  why?  because we have an investment.  these are our stories here, this is our life splayed out on the screen.  dr. phil is not the one taking any risks, we are.

so... yeah, the mods are busy with the busy work of vetting every written word -- which at the very least is a waste of their talents.  and yeah... they are engaged in senseless censorship.


i am posting this at 10:59 am, my time.  let's see how long before it's pulled.


"the truth? you can't handle the truth..."

Moderation

Replied By: Y on Oct 6, 2012, 8:12AM - In reply to profderien

Emoting anger and rage might "feel good" in the short term, however, developing more constructive tools and skill sets might be more helpful in navigating life.
In the 17th Century, Moliere advocated the philosophy of moderation which is as pertinent today as then.
There is a marvelous place for anger and rage...it is called Therapy.

View Replies

"Oh how fine it is to know a thing or two!" -- Molière      

Replied By: profderien on Oct 6, 2012, 8:43AM - In reply to Y

it speaks!  thank you, moderator.

emoting, emoting..what possible role could that have on this site, do ya think?  have you noticed the leitmotif running through most of your adherents' lives -- that of not having enough money to buy the tools you so blithely suggest?  might that not explain the instense begging that breaks out like smallpox from time to time?  for make-overs, for money to get to hospitals, money to keep the internet available for access to helpful sites like... this one.

"constructive tools and skills" -- as far as i can see, the ones that you are advocating fall under the rubric of 'sublimation.'  or is dr. phil wishing us all to be subsumed by some skinnerian device, and our rewards and disincentives come through whether or not the moderators will publish our over the top emoting or our oppressed/suppressed pollyanna acts?

i gotta give you the brass balls award, male or female, for mentioning molière to me.  give Le Médecin malgré lui a read.  and no, molière was not exactly an advocate for moderation... or at least, he was about as much as was rabelais.

i've had therapy. it was great.  they tell me i don't need any more.  but if you don't want me to emote anger and rage, kindly delineate what it is okay to emote.  i mean, heck, if i suppress that, won't that morph into depression and grief...?

in reply to moderator's comment:

"Emoting anger and rage might "feel good" in the short term, however, developing more constructive tools and skill sets might be more helpful in navigating life.
In the 17th Century, Moliere advocated the philosophy of moderation which is as pertinent today as then.
There is a marvelous place for anger and rage...it is called Therapy."

*************************************************************************

Actually, hmmmm.  I've no idea if the person to whom I was responding was a moderator or not.  Oh, well, I got to emote all over the page (it'll be hours of cleaning for some poor crew working at or below minimum wage....).

Speaking of which, I'd best at least put our small apartment here in the East Wing in some sort of order before I get hauled off to debtor's prison for "stealing from DrPhil.com's website."

It's been fun... Try to carry on without me.  Go Joey!  Go Hannah!  Go Kate!  Go Ashley!  Oh, dear God, I was not cut out for incarceration.  I'm much too pretty.