After my divorce five years ago,after losing nearly every material
thing for the third time in my life, I went through a period where my
anger was out-of-control. Proper meds and meditation restored
civility, but I remained bitter and overly defensive.

I went to therapy and shared my thoughts with people who understood,
or so I thought. From every quarter, I was pushed to do things I was
not emotionally prepared to do at the time, and when I resisted, I was
either pushed harder or picked apart. This isn't a "wah-wah poor
persecuted me" statement; I'm attempting to say the experiences did
more harm than good. I became fearful in ways I had not been before. I
withdrew more, building a cage around myself, believing I had to do
everything on my own. I stopped crying and being suicidal after a
while, then the shock of wondering "why all the harshness?" wore off,
and it left me determined to isolate.

Isolation did not mean "giving up". I live in a building that I hate.
While my apartment itself is comfortable, I face harassment and
hundreds of people who've given up on life every time I step outside.
That's their problem, I said. They can sit here and rot if they like.
I'm going to use this as an opportunity to get the formal education
I've always wanted. Then I'm going to work, and I'll leave here, and
they can stay stuck.

And I tried to get that education, twice. First, in 2001, I entered a
nurse-assistant program, hoping to work part-time while pursuing an
LPN-to-RN track. But at the end of training, I began having violent
flashbacks of being my grandmother's forced caretaker. When the first
one occurred, I hoped it was an aberration and returned to class the
next day. A second intrusive vision happened, same subject, more vivid
and violent. I then knew I would not be safe to care for patients. I'd
never forgive myself if I mistook an innocent patient for that cruel,
selfish, demanding woman I was stuck with. But I grew up in a family
of nurses and love the medical field. I retreated, not by giving up
but simply wondering what I could do next.

Leaving the program brought harsh judgement, again, from people I
thought might understand. Although the financial loss was minimal and
half my tuition was refunded, State Vocational Rehabilitation won't
return any of my phone calls. I've gone to their office couple of
times, only to hear "you can get a job on your own, you don't need
us." Eh... I haven't held a job since 2000. I'm disabled. It's in your
freakin' service description to help people like me, including if a
career or training choice does not prove to be a good fit.

Last year I decided to skip all supposed "helping" agencies by
registering for college. Two years and I'd have a certificate to work
in the medical field, an office position, no caretaking and
(hopefully) no flashbacks. A couple of weeks before I was to begin
classes, I began having constant migraines and flashbacks. A week
before, I experienced recurring nightmares that continued into waking
hours as hallucinations.. they were horrible, being surrounded by dead
things at every turn, I could even _smell_ them. My therapist at the
time acknowledged the severity. I withdrew from classes, hoping I'd
find a way to address what's so fucking wrong inside my head that I
cannot better myself.

I sunk into despair again after withdrawing from school, something I
badly wanted to do, even was excited about. How much more will this
illness take from me, I wondered. Then, one night, after a
conversation with a devoutly spiritual person in my building, I was
inspired to use a talent that is not often subject to PTSD reactions.
I completed the first draft of a novel and began the sequel. For the
last year, I've spent most of my time revising and forming them into
readable, interesting stories. It was totally enjoyable, and for once,
I got support instead of harsh criticism.

About a month ago, I asked myself what happened to the road-cycling
routine I used to love. Too many long nights at the keyboard, I said.
Get back out there and find the joy you knew a few years ago, fifteen
miles every other day, the peace of moving meditation and added
benefit of mood control. And I did. It's been a while, so the rides
were ten miles, stopping to rest until my body gained strength and
endurance again. I was getting back in shape, fast.

I could not anticipate what happened next. One morning I was riding
happily through a quiet residential neighborhood and was cast into
despair again, one from which I have yet to emerge. Why? People coming
and going from their houses. Senior ladies tending to their gardens.
Kids walking dogs. Folks doing various jobs. The mainstream, the
regular world, the place I've longed so desperately to be part of,
barred by mental illness and being born into an unfortunate situation.

I made a bad decision five years ago. Sealing myself off and relying
entirely on my own incentive, attempting to pursue a better life
without fear of insults, pushing and criticism -- it's been a
miserable failure. Maybe a hardy few make successes of themselves in
isolation, but I am not one of them.

I am disconnected from everyone except those I talk to from a
distance, on this computer, and in my recent pain I've withdrawn even
from them. I refuse to give up, my abusers win if I do. But in many
ways, I do not know how to connect to anyone face-to-face any more.
Mostly, I fear reaching out for support again. There isn't a choice,
my emotional state is disintegrating, I have to try. How much more
criticism will I have to bear along the way? Only time will tell.

What I really need is compassion. Not enabling, not babying, love and
compassion. That's what I was looking for five years ago, and instead
found (mostly offline) an atmosphere which was exactly how my family
treated me. I expect to be shoved around by folks in the mainstream,
but in a goddamed therapy group? Ever had a therapist flip out on you
because she was a control freak who needed more therapy than all the
group members combined? She grabbed an industrial-sized box of tissues
and withdrew the smaller boxes inside, one by one, to throw them
around the room. Then she started throwing them AT ME. Because I
wouldn't do exactly what she wanted me to do, things I had repeatedly
stated were beyond my capabilities. If one of those boxes had struck
me, I'd probably be in prison right now. My mother used to throw
shoes, thick-soled nurse's shoes, and whenever one hit me, I hit her
back. Hard. That reflex remains. I don't want to be rid of it. There's
nothing wrong with self-defense -- unless you're a psych patient.

I'm strong in many ways, independent in others, intelligent in more.
But I am deeply wounded, I have no outside support and two very real
illnesses that interfere with my ability to function. I don't expect
to meet the standards of those who are not similarly impaired... one
day I hope to understand why I've been expected to perform at that
level.

The writing has gone by the wayside as the error of my isolative
decision has become clear. I am stressed to the breaking point over
financial matters, monthly costs rising beyond my ability to keep up
with them, and I'm getting all the entitlement support a disabled
person can get. Everything else has to wait. I have to address this
first. I HAVE to make more money, not much, but enough to no longer
lay awake at night wondering how much longer I can afford to stay
alive. I need help to get there. I need to have some support when the
nasty symptoms of my illnesses interfere.

All the while, there's a childish voice echoing in my head, the same
one who spoke in real-time many years ago... why can't someone help
me? Why can't someone care about me? I'm not bad, I want to do better,
I don't want to be this way (emotionally disturbed), please, someone
help me do better. Attention? What do you mean I just want attention?
I just want to be loved.

I can't give up, I simply can't. When will I finally find assistance
actually _helps_ me? I still believe I can do better, but I can't do
it alone. I'm going to seek help again, but I'm so fearful that I'm
having panic attacks every day. Will I find assistance, understanding,
guidance, tolerance of setbacks -- or more cruelty? Because if that's
the case, all I need is my own mind. I can destroy myself without
anyone's "help".

After my divorce five years ago,after losing nearly every material
thing for the third time in my life, I went through a period where my
anger was out-of-control. Proper meds and meditation restored
civility, but I remained bitter and overly defensive.

I went to therapy and shared my thoughts with people who understood,
or so I thought. From every quarter, I was pushed to do things I was
not emotionally prepared to do at the time, and when I resisted, I was
either pushed harder or picked apart. This isn't a "wah-wah poor
persecuted me" statement; I'm attempting to say the experiences did
more harm than good. I became fearful in ways I had not been before. I
withdrew more, building a cage around myself, believing I had to do
everything on my own. I stopped crying and being suicidal after a
while, then the shock of wondering "why all the harshness?" wore off,
and it left me determined to isolate.

Isolation did not mean "giving up". I live in a building that I hate.
While my apartment itself is comfortable, I face harassment and
hundreds of people who've given up on life every time I step outside.
That's their problem, I said. They can sit here and rot if they like.
I'm going to use this as an opportunity to get the formal education
I've always wanted. Then I'm going to work, and I'll leave here, and
they can stay stuck.

And I tried to get that education, twice. First, in 2001, I entered a
nurse-assistant program, hoping to work part-time while pursuing an
LPN-to-RN track. But at the end of training, I began having violent
flashbacks of being my grandmother's forced caretaker. When the first
one occurred, I hoped it was an aberration and returned to class the
next day. A second intrusive vision happened, same subject, more vivid
and violent. I then knew I would not be safe to care for patients. I'd
never forgive myself if I mistook an innocent patient for that cruel,
selfish, demanding woman I was stuck with. But I grew up in a family
of nurses and love the medical field. I retreated, not by giving up
but simply wondering what I could do next.

Leaving the program brought harsh judgement, again, from people I
thought might understand. Although the financial loss was minimal and
half my tuition was refunded, State Vocational Rehabilitation won't
return any of my phone calls. I've gone to their office couple of
times, only to hear "you can get a job on your own, you don't need
us." Eh... I haven't held a job since 2000. I'm disabled. It's in your
freakin' service description to help people like me, including if a
career or training choice does not prove to be a good fit.

Last year I decided to skip all supposed "helping" agencies by
registering for college. Two years and I'd have a certificate to work
in the medical field, an office position, no caretaking and
(hopefully) no flashbacks. A couple of weeks before I was to begin
classes, I began having constant migraines and flashbacks. A week
before, I experienced recurring nightmares that continued into waking
hours as hallucinations.. they were horrible, being surrounded by dead
things at every turn, I could even _smell_ them. My therapist at the
time acknowledged the severity. I withdrew from classes, hoping I'd
find a way to address what's so fucking wrong inside my head that I
cannot better myself.

I sunk into despair again after withdrawing from school, something I
badly wanted to do, even was excited about. How much more will this
illness take from me, I wondered. Then, one night, after a
conversation with a devoutly spiritual person in my building, I was
inspired to use a talent that is not often subject to PTSD reactions.
I completed the first draft of a novel and began the sequel. For the
last year, I've spent most of my time revising and forming them into
readable, interesting stories. It was totally enjoyable, and for once,
I got support instead of harsh criticism.

About a month ago, I asked myself what happened to the road-cycling
routine I used to love. Too many long nights at the keyboard, I said.
Get back out there and find the joy you knew a few years ago, fifteen
miles every other day, the peace of moving meditation and added
benefit of mood control. And I did. It's been a while, so the rides
were ten miles, stopping to rest until my body gained strength and
endurance again. I was getting back in shape, fast.

I could not anticipate what happened next. One morning I was riding
happily through a quiet residential neighborhood and was cast into
despair again, one from which I have yet to emerge. Why? People coming
and going from their houses. Senior ladies tending to their gardens.
Kids walking dogs. Folks doing various jobs. The mainstream, the
regular world, the place I've longed so desperately to be part of,
barred by mental illness and being born into an unfortunate situation.

I made a bad decision five years ago. Sealing myself off and relying
entirely on my own incentive, attempting to pursue a better life
without fear of insults, pushing and criticism -- it's been a
miserable failure. Maybe a hardy few make successes of themselves in
isolation, but I am not one of them.

I am disconnected from everyone except those I talk to from a
distance, on this computer, and in my recent pain I've withdrawn even
from them. I refuse to give up, my abusers win if I do. But in many
ways, I do not know how to connect to anyone face-to-face any more.
Mostly, I fear reaching out for support again. There isn't a choice,
my emotional state is disintegrating, I have to try. How much more
criticism will I have to bear along the way? Only time will tell.

What I really need is compassion. Not enabling, not babying, love and
compassion. That's what I was looking for five years ago, and instead
found (mostly offline) an atmosphere which was exactly how my family
treated me. I expect to be shoved around by folks in the mainstream,
but in a goddamed therapy group? Ever had a therapist flip out on you
because she was a control freak who needed more therapy than all the
group members combined? She grabbed an industrial-sized box of tissues
and withdrew the smaller boxes inside, one by one, to throw them
around the room. Then she started throwing them AT ME. Because I
wouldn't do exactly what she wanted me to do, things I had repeatedly
stated were beyond my capabilities. If one of those boxes had struck
me, I'd probably be in prison right now. My mother used to throw
shoes, thick-soled nurse's shoes, and whenever one hit me, I hit her
back. Hard. That reflex remains. I don't want to be rid of it. There's
nothing wrong with self-defense -- unless you're a psych patient.

I'm strong in many ways, independent in others, intelligent in more.
But I am deeply wounded, I have no outside support and two very real
illnesses that interfere with my ability to function. I don't expect
to meet the standards of those who are not similarly impaired... one
day I hope to understand why I've been expected to perform at that
level.

The writing has gone by the wayside as the error of my isolative
decision has become clear. I am stressed to the breaking point over
financial matters, monthly costs rising beyond my ability to keep up
with them, and I'm getting all the entitlement support a disabled
person can get. Everything else has to wait. I have to address this
first. I HAVE to make more money, not much, but enough to no longer
lay awake at night wondering how much longer I can afford to stay
alive. I need help to get there. I need to have some support when the
nasty symptoms of my illnesses interfere.

All the while, there's a childish voice echoing in my head, the same
one who spoke in real-time many years ago... why can't someone help
me? Why can't someone care about me? I'm not bad, I want to do better,
I don't want to be this way (emotionally disturbed), please, someone
help me do better. Attention? What do you mean I just want attention?
I just want to be loved.

I can't give up, I simply can't. When will I finally find assistance
actually _helps_ me? I still believe I can do better, but I can't do
it alone. I'm going to seek help again, but I'm so fearful that I'm
having panic attacks every day. Will I find assistance, understanding,
guidance, tolerance of setbacks -- or more cruelty? Because if that's
the case, all I need is my own mind. I can destroy myself without
anyone's "help".

After my divorce five years ago,after losing nearly every material
thing for the third time in my life, I went through a period where my
anger was out-of-control. Proper meds and meditation restored
civility, but I remained bitter and overly defensive.

After my divorce five years ago,after losing nearly every material
thing for the third time in my life, I went through a period where my
anger was out-of-control. Proper meds and meditation restored
civility, but I remained bitter and overly defensive.

I went to therapy and shared my thoughts with people who understood,
or so I thought. From every quarter, I was pushed to do things I was
not emotionally prepared to do at the time, and when I resisted, I was
either pushed harder or picked apart. This isn't a "wah-wah poor
persecuted me" statement; I'm attempting to say the experiences did
more harm than good. I became fearful in ways I had not been before. I
withdrew more, building a cage around myself, believing I had to do
everything on my own. I stopped crying and being suicidal after a
while, then the shock of wondering "why all the harshness?" wore off,
and it left me determined to isolate.

Isolation did not mean "giving up". I live in a building that I hate.
While my apartment itself is comfortable, I face harassment and
hundreds of people who've given up on life every time I step outside.
That's their problem, I said. They can sit here and rot if they like.
I'm going to use this as an opportunity to get the formal education
I've always wanted. Then I'm going to work, and I'll leave here, and
they can stay stuck.

And I tried to get that education, twice. First, in 2001, I entered a
nurse-assistant program, hoping to work part-time while pursuing an
LPN-to-RN track. But at the end of training, I began having violent
flashbacks of being my grandmother's forced caretaker. When the first
one occurred, I hoped it was an aberration and returned to class the
next day. A second intrusive vision happened, same subject, more vivid
and violent. I then knew I would not be safe to care for patients. I'd
never forgive myself if I mistook an innocent patient for that cruel,
selfish, demanding woman I was stuck with. But I grew up in a family
of nurses and love the medical field. I retreated, not by giving up
but simply wondering what I could do next.

Leaving the program brought harsh judgement, again, from people I
thought might understand. Although the financial loss was minimal and
half my tuition was refunded, State Vocational Rehabilitation won't
return any of my phone calls. I've gone to their office couple of
times, only to hear "you can get a job on your own, you don't need
us." Eh... I haven't held a job since 2000. I'm disabled. It's in your
freakin' service description to help people like me, including if a
career or training choice does not prove to be a good fit.

Last year I decided to skip all supposed "helping" agencies by
registering for college. Two years and I'd have a certificate to work
in the medical field, an office position, no caretaking and
(hopefully) no flashbacks. A couple of weeks before I was to begin
classes, I began having constant migraines and flashbacks. A week
before, I experienced recurring nightmares that continued into waking
hours as hallucinations.. they were horrible, being surrounded by dead
things at every turn, I could even _smell_ them. My therapist at the
time acknowledged the severity. I withdrew from classes, hoping I'd
find a way to address what's so fucking wrong inside my head that I
cannot better myself.

I sunk into despair again after withdrawing from school, something I
badly wanted to do, even was excited about. How much more will this
illness take from me, I wondered. Then, one night, after a
conversation with a devoutly spiritual person in my building, I was
inspired to use a talent that is not often subject to PTSD reactions.
I completed the first draft of a novel and began the sequel. For the
last year, I've spent most of my time revising and forming them into
readable, interesting stories. It was totally enjoyable, and for once,
I got support instead of harsh criticism.

About a month ago, I asked myself what happened to the road-cycling
routine I used to love. Too many long nights at the keyboard, I said.
Get back out there and find the joy you knew a few years ago, fifteen
miles every other day, the peace of moving meditation and added
benefit of mood control. And I did. It's been a while, so the rides
were ten miles, stopping to rest until my body gained strength and
endurance again. I was getting back in shape, fast.

I could not anticipate what happened next. One morning I was riding
happily through a quiet residential neighborhood and was cast into
despair again, one from which I have yet to emerge. Why? People coming
and going from their houses. Senior ladies tending to their gardens.
Kids walking dogs. Folks doing various jobs. The mainstream, the
regular world, the place I've longed so desperately to be part of,
barred by mental illness and being born into an unfortunate situation.

I made a bad decision five years ago. Sealing myself off and relying
entirely on my own incentive, attempting to pursue a better life
without fear of insults, pushing and criticism -- it's been a
miserable failure. Maybe a hardy few make successes of themselves in
isolation, but I am not one of them.

I am disconnected from everyone except those I talk to from a
distance, on this computer, and in my recent pain I've withdrawn even
from them. I refuse to give up, my abusers win if I do. But in many
ways, I do not know how to connect to anyone face-to-face any more.
Mostly, I fear reaching out for support again. There isn't a choice,
my emotional state is disintegrating, I have to try. How much more
criticism will I have to bear along the way? Only time will tell.

What I really need is compassion. Not enabling, not babying, love and
compassion. That's what I was looking for five years ago, and instead
found (mostly offline) an atmosphere which was exactly how my family
treated me. I expect to be shoved around by folks in the mainstream,
but in a goddamed therapy group? Ever had a therapist flip out on you
because she was a control freak who needed more therapy than all the
group members combined? She grabbed an industrial-sized box of tissues
and withdrew the smaller boxes inside, one by one, to throw them
around the room. Then she started throwing them AT ME. Because I
wouldn't do exactly what she wanted me to do, things I had repeatedly
stated were beyond my capabilities. If one of those boxes had struck
me, I'd probably be in prison right now. My mother used to throw
shoes, thick-soled nurse's shoes, and whenever one hit me, I hit her
back. Hard. That reflex remains. I don't want to be rid of it. There's
nothing wrong with self-defense -- unless you're a psych patient.

I'm strong in many ways, independent in others, intelligent in more.
But I am deeply wounded, I have no outside support and two very real
illnesses that interfere with my ability to function. I don't expect
to meet the standards of those who are not similarly impaired... one
day I hope to understand why I've been expected to perform at that
level.

The writing has gone by the wayside as the error of my isolative
decision has become clear. I am stressed to the breaking point over
financial matters, monthly costs rising beyond my ability to keep up
with them, and I'm getting all the entitlement support a disabled
person can get. Everything else has to wait. I have to address this
first. I HAVE to make more money, not much, but enough to no longer
lay awake at night wondering how much longer I can afford to stay
alive. I need help to get there. I need to have some support when the
nasty symptoms of my illnesses interfere.

All the while, there's a childish voice echoing in my head, the same
one who spoke in real-time many years ago... why can't someone help
me? Why can't someone care about me? I'm not bad, I want to do better,
I don't want to be this way (emotionally disturbed), please, someone
help me do better. Attention? What do you mean I just want attention?
I just want to be loved.

I can't give up, I simply can't. When will I finally find assistance
actually _helps_ me? I still believe I can do better, but I can't do
it alone. I'm going to seek help again, but I'm so fearful that I'm
having panic attacks every day. Will I find assistance, understanding,
guidance, tolerance of setbacks -- or more cruelty? Because if that's
the case, all I need is my own mind. I can destroy myself without
anyone's "help".

After my divorce five years ago,after losing nearly every material
thing for the third time in my life, I went through a period where my
anger was out-of-control. Proper meds and meditation restored
civility, but I remained bitter and overly defensive.

I went to therapy and shared my thoughts with people who understood,
or so I thought. From every quarter, I was pushed to do things I was
not emotionally prepared to do at the time, and when I resisted, I was
either pushed harder or picked apart. This isn't a "wah-wah poor
persecuted me" statement; I'm attempting to say the experiences did
more harm than good. I became fearful in ways I had not been before. I
withdrew more, building a cage around myself, believing I had to do
everything on my own. I stopped crying and being suicidal after a
while, then the shock of wondering "why all the harshness?" wore off,
and it left me determined to isolate.

Isolation did not mean "giving up". I live in a building that I hate.
While my apartment itself is comfortable, I face harassment and
hundreds of people who've given up on life every time I step outside.
That's their problem, I said. They can sit here and rot if they like.
I'm going to use this as an opportunity to get the formal education
I've always wanted. Then I'm going to work, and I'll leave here, and
they can stay stuck.

And I tried to get that education, twice. First, in 2001, I entered a
nurse-assistant program, hoping to work part-time while pursuing an
LPN-to-RN track. But at the end of training, I began having violent
flashbacks of being my grandmother's forced caretaker. When the first
one occurred, I hoped it was an aberration and returned to class the
next day. A second intrusive vision happened, same subject, more vivid
and violent. I then knew I would not be safe to care for patients. I'd
never forgive myself if I mistook an innocent patient for that cruel,
selfish, demanding woman I was stuck with. But I grew up in a family
of nurses and love the medical field. I retreated, not by giving up
but simply wondering what I could do next.

Leaving the program brought harsh judgement, again, from people I
thought might understand. Although the financial loss was minimal and
half my tuition was refunded, State Vocational Rehabilitation won't
return any of my phone calls. I've gone to their office couple of
times, only to hear "you can get a job on your own, you don't need
us." Eh... I haven't held a job since 2000. I'm disabled. It's in your
freakin' service description to help people like me, including if a
career or training choice does not prove to be a good fit.

Last year I decided to skip all supposed "helping" agencies by
registering for college. Two years and I'd have a certificate to work
in the medical field, an office position, no caretaking and
(hopefully) no flashbacks. A couple of weeks before I was to begin
classes, I began having constant migraines and flashbacks. A week
before, I experienced recurring nightmares that continued into waking
hours as hallucinations.. they were horrible, being surrounded by dead
things at every turn, I could even _smell_ them. My therapist at the
time acknowledged the severity. I withdrew from classes, hoping I'd
find a way to address what's so fucking wrong inside my head that I
cannot better myself.

I sunk into despair again after withdrawing from school, something I
badly wanted to do, even was excited about. How much more will this
illness take from me, I wondered. Then, one night, after a
conversation with a devoutly spiritual person in my building, I was
inspired to use a talent that is not often subject to PTSD reactions.
I completed the first draft of a novel and began the sequel. For the
last year, I've spent most of my time revising and forming them into
readable, interesting stories. It was totally enjoyable, and for once,
I got support instead of harsh criticism.

About a month ago, I asked myself what happened to the road-cycling
routine I used to love. Too many long nights at the keyboard, I said.
Get back out there and find the joy you knew a few years ago, fifteen
miles every other day, the peace of moving meditation and added
benefit of mood control. And I did. It's been a while, so the rides
were ten miles, stopping to rest until my body gained strength and
endurance again. I was getting back in shape, fast.

I could not anticipate what happened next. One morning I was riding
happily through a quiet residential neighborhood and was cast into
despair again, one from which I have yet to emerge. Why? People coming
and going from their houses. Senior ladies tending to their gardens.
Kids walking dogs. Folks doing various jobs. The mainstream, the
regular world, the place I've longed so desperately to be part of,
barred by mental illness and being born into an unfortunate situation.

I made a bad decision five years ago. Sealing myself off and relying
entirely on my own incentive, attempting to pursue a better life
without fear of insults, pushing and criticism -- it's been a
miserable failure. Maybe a hardy few make successes of themselves in
isolation, but I am not one of them.

I am disconnected from everyone except those I talk to from a
distance, on this computer, and in my recent pain I've withdrawn even
from them. I refuse to give up, my abusers win if I do. But in many
ways, I do not know how to connect to anyone face-to-face any more.
Mostly, I fear reaching out for support again. There isn't a choice,
my emotional state is disintegrating, I have to try. How much more
criticism will I have to bear along the way? Only time will tell.

What I really need is compassion. Not enabling, not babying, love and
compassion. That's what I was looking for five years ago, and instead
found (mostly offline) an atmosphere which was exactly how my family
treated me. I expect to be shoved around by folks in the mainstream,
but in a goddamed therapy group? Ever had a therapist flip out on you
because she was a control freak who needed more therapy than all the
group members combined? She grabbed an industrial-sized box of tissues
and withdrew the smaller boxes inside, one by one, to throw them
around the room. Then she started throwing them AT ME. Because I
wouldn't do exactly what she wanted me to do, things I had repeatedly
stated were beyond my capabilities. If one of those boxes had struck
me, I'd probably be in prison right now. My mother used to throw
shoes, thick-soled nurse's shoes, and whenever one hit me, I hit her
back. Hard. That reflex remains. I don't want to be rid of it. There's
nothing wrong with self-defense -- unless you're a psych patient.

I'm strong in many ways, independent in others, intelligent in more.
But I am deeply wounded, I have no outside support and two very real
illnesses that interfere with my ability to function. I don't expect
to meet the standards of those who are not similarly impaired... one
day I hope to understand why I've been expected to perform at that
level.

The writing has gone by the wayside as the error of my isolative
decision has become clear. I am stressed to the breaking point over
financial matters, monthly costs rising beyond my ability to keep up
with them, and I'm getting all the entitlement support a disabled
person can get. Everything else has to wait. I have to address this
first. I HAVE to make more money, not much, but enough to no longer
lay awake at night wondering how much longer I can afford to stay
alive. I need help to get there. I need to have some support when the
nasty symptoms of my illnesses interfere.

All the while, there's a childish voice echoing in my head, the same
one who spoke in real-time many years ago... why can't someone help
me? Why can't someone care about me? I'm not bad, I want to do better,
I don't want to be this way (emotionally disturbed), please, someone
help me do better. Attention? What do you mean I just want attention?
I just want to be loved.

I can't give up, I simply can't. When will I finally find assistance
actually _helps_ me? I still believe I can do better, but I can't do
it alone. I'm going to seek help again, but I'm so fearful that I'm
having panic attacks every day. Will I find assistance, understanding,
guidance, tolerance of setbacks -- or more cruelty? Because if that's
the case, all I need is my own mind. I can destroy myself without
anyone's "help".