whyyallsweatin

[whyyallsweatin]

In some parts of the world, the raven is a sign of death or misfortune; to others its presence indicates good fortune.I was told to not call the police after being assaulted under a roof I paid entirely for by a stranger who was inside. No one thought throwing my belongings out of this roof I paid for would get Jon thrown out.I called the police to make sure jon was ok. I didn’t care about my stuff. After I was assaulted there and forced to come deal with it alone with no car after midnight. Alone, the assailant still living there.Jon locked me out. I was alone.When I was away I told jon how dangerous it was for the door to be open with an assailant living there and begged him to lock the door. I’m not coming home, he didn’t need to leave it open for me.WITH AN ASSAILANT LIVING THERE WHO COULD GET IN.HE DID NOT LOCK THE DOOR. KNOWING I WASNT COMING HOME AND JUST HE WAS IN THERE.WITH MY ENTIRE LIFE HE THREW OUTSIDE HE LOCKED ME OUT. TO COME GET IT ALONE WITH NO CAR.I WAS LOCKED OUT ALONE WITH MY BELONGINGS ON THE ROAD. JON LOCKED ME OUT. THE ASSAILANT COULD GET OUT.ALONE I CALLED THE POLICE TO CHECK TO SEE IF JON WAS OK MOSTLY AS HE WAS IN THE UNIT LOCKED IN I THOUGHT HE MIGHT BE SUICIDAL.HE WAS NOT. THE POLICE TALKED TO HIM AND THEY TOLD ME. THE POLICE TOLD ME ALONE TO MOVE MY BELONGINGS WITH NO CAR. NO MONEY. NOTHING. TO ANOTHER LOCATION. I DIDN'T HAVE ANOTHER LOCATION.NO. I SAID NO. I PAID TO LIVE THERE. JON SAID I DID NOT, HE LIED.HE LIED.THE POLICE AND JON PUT MY THINGS BACK IN.I SAT THERE AND JON TOLD ME TO GET MY LAZY ASS OFF THE GROUND AND CLEAN MY SHIT UP.FUCK NO.There were three ravens that watched from a tall tree that day. We put my brother's ashes in the earth. Beside the urn that held his mother. Three ravens. One as my mother. The other was Tyler. The Raven, Tyler.Raven Taylor assaulted me under a roof I paid for. She got in because Jon left the door unlocked. Deliberately?When I got home before she assaulted me, the door was locked. I banged on the door to get in loudly. Raven opened the door. I was mad about this. It was unsafe. Jon was in the shower laying down with the bathroom door OPEN. OPEN AND UNLOCKED.I yelled at him about it. I was unsafe.Raven lunged at me, Jon was in the bathroom with the door open and Raven lunged at me and ran past the bathroom door yelling at me calling me a psycho.For over 5 minutes she tried to choke me to death on the floor. Screaming and calling me a psycho stalker. A meth head. Choking me. UNDER A ROOF I PAY FOR. I PAID FOR THE ENTIRE MONTH, THE FIRST MONTH, JON PAID NOTHING.Eventually Jon came out and grabbed her off me. And pushed her out. She kept on screaming that I needed to get the fuck out of his place because of the things they say about me. Go back and look or remember the things Jon used to write about me with London. Psycho. She said she was going to kill me.Jon said it took him so long because he couldn't hear. The door was open.When I came home, the door was locked that night. BOTH OF THOSE NIGHTS.Why was it locked when he was still up in the shower and knew I was coming home.Why did he not know Raven was here when he was in the shower with the door open.Why did he lock the door with my belongings strewn on the road after I was mad about these things and his past depictions of me and left. Without throwing his stuff out. From under a roof he didn't pay for. At my expense.Why did the police try and make me move them at first with no car. Nothing?Why did they change their mind.Why did Raven not come out and attack me given all the commotion of my stuff being thrown out?Because I was outside with Raven. Not Raven Taylor.There were three ravens that watched from a tall tree that day. We put my brother's ashes in the earth. Beside the urn that held his mother. Three ravens. One as my mother. The other was Tyler. The Raven, Tyler.My brother. The Raven.The other my mother. They’re angels.I don’t know about the door lock thing. It could have been random.But remember the other stuff you saw? Him berating me publicly, saying first I thought fake profiles were stalking me. Then accusing me of stalking him with fake profiles? Takes one to know one. He deliberately degraded and mocked me for months with no remorse, even entertained hurting me. Fabricated that I might hurt an unborn child. I didn’t know about the pregnancy. And in pm, insinuated murdering me with Brix Mas. I have proof.For what? Ask him why? Because I’m mentally ill? Hate crime. After I begged him to stop. Through paying him. His friend Tegan who jon has access to her Facebook login and could see. That being said. Who was the third Raven? In that story about my brother’s funeral. That story is true. Along with everything else in this story.And I hope this part too, about the third raven.It’s me.

[whyyallsweatin]

[whyyallsweatin]

[whyyallsweatin]

[whyyallsweatin]

[whyyallsweatin]

[whyyallsweatin]

[whyyallsweatin]

[whyyallsweatin]

[whyyallsweatin]

[whyyallsweatin]

P i n k

[whyyallsweatin]

Just finished my room finally

[whyyallsweatin]

I don’t know who I am anymore. People used to walk all over me. I was no one. No they don’t even go near me. I’m everyone.

Who will I be? Ten years from now, where will I be.

I’m

Nothing

Like

I

Used

To

Be

[whyyallsweatin]

I’d run as fast as I can. Oh if you what it meant to me. All my friends were there for me. I have many friends. The unspeakable things. I never knew - I have so many people who love me.

[whyyallsweatin]

If you hate your job so much, just quit.

Psychiatric Emergency Services at Victoria’s Royal Jubilee Hospital is a department that is run like no other medical department in the world. The treatments used in first-line mental health crisis were not designed to address the neurological functions associated with mental distress outside of psychosis. Additionally, the hostile environment created by staff serves no purpose in the treatment of mental distress.

I’ve been there countless times. I have witnessed the procedures and noticed alarming patterns in procedures were applied not to chemically subdue patients experiencing a wide range of psychiatric ailments.

When you first walk in, you are asked to hand over your bag and cell phone by a nurse. You are then directed to sit down in one of the chairs in the waiting room. Assessment usually begins with a nurse who asks you a service of questions in order to relay that information to the psychiatrist. You are then asked to go back and wait to see the next doctor, usually a medical doctor. Following that, you will be given the opportunity to speak to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist will recommend medication or hospitalization based on what they observe.

Patients who suffer from psychiatric problems like psychosis are often unmanageable, hostile and may be physically violent. Anti-psychotics are the first line medications used to treat drug-induced or schizophrenic episodes of psychosis by correcting the irregular dopamine functions associated with the ailment.

These seem like standard, reasonable procedures, but what makes PES unique is the unexplainable logic used to validate the administration of psychiatric drugs and execute deplorable personal treatment of patients by support staff. Unlike people suffering from physical pain, people who suffer from mental illness are vilified for questioning procedures that include detaining people isolation if they were forced to go to the hospital by family members, friends or law enforcement after showing signs that their mental health was a threat to their welfare, or the welfare of those around them.

Distressed people who do not want to go to the hospital usually become aggressive and demand to let out. In my case, a friend overreacted to something I said online and provoked a team of law enforcement and an ambulance to raid my home, handcuff me and deliver me to psychiatric emergency services. After hours of trying to get out, worrying about the welfare of my pets after the dramatic scene the RCMP and ambulance had created, I became hostile. I used the phone in the waiting area to call 911 and try and get out. Having previous experience with psychiatry, I knew I would likely be forced to take the magic bullet of psychiatric medicine: Seroquel.

I’ve taken Seroquel before, naively after my psychiatrist recommended it for insomnia. After taking it, I passed out cold and woke up with a terrible feeling of depression, dread, anxiety and depression. I immediately made the connection between the drug and these symptoms but did not realize that all anti-psychotics by their very mode of action are directly responsible for chemically inducing these kinds of mental disturbances.

Anyways, I asked for a piece of paper and wrote down a lengthy satire targeting the over prescription of Seroquel. I was then guided to a private observation room where several doctors and a psychiatrists who did not ask questions about my well-being but addressed the very behaviour I was displaying as a result of being detailed against my will, and the audacity I had in ridiculing the well-known practice of prescribing Seroquel for psychiatric disorders where no evidence existed to support the administration of the drug. She called me a psychopath and then used the opportunity to impress the room by listing the qualifications she had acquired various certificates and degrees. No explanation of why anti-psychotics were being administered for psychiatric ailments outside of psychosis was provided and the illogical argument that a variety of vague academic achievements somehow qualified the psychiatrist’s relentless devotion to this magical drug.

The very logic behind administering these drugs for a rainbow unrelated mental conditions is an unexplainable practice that is incomparable to any other medical practice in the world. The assumption that one drug can treat the extraordinarily complex functions associated with multiple mental illnesses seems so obviously faulty. In no other medical practice can a drug be used without any scientific proof to treat illnesses by chemically inducing the blockade of the very neurostransmitter responsible for creating positive emotional responses. The very neurotransmitter that upon release is scientifically proven to be the reason why people feel happy is chemically supressed by anti-psychotics and by removing the ability to experience the ‘happy’ emotion, these drugs treat depression. Depression is unhappiness. So by eliminating the ability to be happy, people who experience chronic unhappiness will benefit from a drug that by its very mode of action chemically castrates the brains ability to make happiness. What in the actual fuck is going on? Imagine a doctor prescribing smoking to cure lung cancer. That’s the same thing as treating depressive mood disorders by administering medication that restrains the ability to make happiness. Happiness is the opposite of depression, no? Am I missing something?

After that productive discussion, the psychiatrist used her power ‘punish’ me by committing me to the isolation room where I violently banged on the door for hours until guards came in to restrain and inject me with anti-psychotics.

I woke up on the cement floor to see that one of the nurses had thrown a plate of food into the isolation room. Most of the food had fallen off the plate and were on the cement, but by all accounts the nurse fulfilled the requirement of providing a psychiatric detainee with food. I did not eat the food. Additionally, the anti-psychotic administered created an overwhelming sense of depression, anxiety and dread. Extreme mental distressed, faced with the realization that my freedoms and psychiatric well being were at the mercy of psychiatric decisioning was incredibly traumatic. I was then escorted to another unit in the hospital and put in another isolation room. I passed out again and woke up startled, not knowing where I was.

I got up and knocked on the window and was met by a nurse who let me out. The ward was a small, windowless set of rooms and a common area for eating. The medication I took both suppressed my cognitive functions, and chemically induced a state of dysphoria and dread.

Several days past, and I was not considered well enough to join the adjacent ward where more freedoms were awarded to patients. The continued administration of anti-psychotics caused insomnia and ruminating thoughts throughout several nights and after about seven sleepless nights, my cognitive abilities were so limited that I failed to recognize where I was when the doctor asked me. By some miracle, I was able to string together the words required to ask the doctor to review the records the nurse had kept about my sleep. She had lied on her report and indicated that my sleep was excellent.

I still have vague memories of countless nights where I pled for help at the window that surrounded the nurse’s station. If she even ever paid attention to me, she would do so by opening the window and yelling the word, “no.”

There are no words I can use to try and describe the dysphoria that anti-psychotics produce. There is nothing that I can compare to the anguish of chemically induced states of mental distress that they cause by their very mode of neurological action in blockading dopamine, the chemical responsible for mental well-being. There is no way out and no relief.

Patients in the psychiatric ward at RJH are treated with palpable disrespect. The chemical restraints forced upon patients do not treat symptoms of mental illness outside psychosis. They subdue patients in order to make them manageable and ensure the safety of medical staff if they display warranted frustration with being locked away against their will. Nothing more.

After weeks of forced medication, the psychiatrist started to put me back on the medications I was used to taking before being admitted to the hospital. My mental health quickly improved after anti-psychotics were removed from the schedule. Eventually I was released, only to relapse into psychosis again after months of isolating and self-medicating the trauma induced anxiety brought on by my incarceration in the psych ward.

I’ll never forget how I helplessly pled for relief of the anxiety produced by anti-psychotics. The prolonged insomnia had profound impacts on my cognitive functioning were so frightening. After seven days of sleeplessness, the doctor finally administered a drug to put me to sleep. There are no words I have to express the utter lack of confidence in psychiatry that I have after being submitted to the abuses of medical professionals responsible for psychiatric patient care.  This was only the first, and not even the worst.

I can’t help but continuously think about the unrelenting desire support staff at the psych ward have to execute punitive actions on patients there, may they be the denial of medications they need to alleviate the unbearable stresses of forced incarceration or the overwhelmingly disdainful way in which they treat patients. I can only compare it to the way overworked parents abruptly address the frivolous demands of a fussy toddler. Only replace toddlers with adults and frivolous demands with helpless pleas for their lives. 

The logic in which drugs that produce unhappiness are used to create happiness in psychiatry is also prevalent in the way in which patients are subjected to treatment that would cause emotional distress in facilities believed to treat them.

These kinds of absurd realities in healthcare are far too unreal for people to believe. 

I can’t help but wonder why nurses who work there do work there. If you hate your job so much, do the world a favour and quit.

[whyyallsweatin]

[whyyallsweatin]

Donated Clothes From Hell

So a former roommate of mine who I hope to never see again, donated me some of her old clothes. I said I’d look through them but she proceeded to dump three boxes of shit in my room. I slowly went through them till I gave up since the boxes comprised of cheap shit you’d buy at Walmart or Winners. Really bad brands, fabrics, cuts - clothes you didn’t really buy to wear over and over again, but were worn over and over again and washed and shrunk and stained and painted. Everything was worthless. All the clothes were just awful. I can’t even donate them to Value Village. There’s some Apple Bottom Jeans in there that really scare me because those are straight up haunted jeans from the 2000s. Anyone who wore those would drink high balls and snort cocaine off dirty toilet paper dispensers in crappy nightclubs in Duncan. Apple Bottom jeans...Those were like one of those pricier brands that absolutely crashed after a few years and you never heard from them again. I took a look at them and touched them a bit and could feel the desperation the last person who wore them had. These were jeans that were bought in an attempt to remain relevant. To stay hip. To be in the cool group, despite the fact that the owner was in their late thirties or forties. I don’t know. I imagine they were worn with sexy fuck me boots and a tight, rhinestoned top from Suzy Sheer. Polyester blends, stiff labels that poked into your skin, slim fitting denim that was too long for women under 5′6 but they’d wear it anyway. On wet days the jeans would absorb water from the ground and climb upwards toward the mid calf of the person who’s wearing it. Awful stuff. All of these clothes represent a lifetime of bad taste. Nothing in here could ever be brought back as retro because the fabrics are too cheap, too stained, too polyester, too man-made. Everything smells vaguely of Exclamation perfume. Various items are shrunk oddly because they were put in the dryer when they shouldn’t have been. All ugh. Everything is terrible. I hate everything in this pile of clothes. They are what McDonalds is to fine food - only they are old McDonalds food that was tossed in the garbage and messed with by a bunch of filthy raccoons. I need to get rid of it or it will consume my life. Honestly they are a burden I’ve been carrying around for weeks now and there’s just something so impossible about bringing myself to throw them out because I don’t want to touch them at all - even to get rid of them. I hate them. I HATE THEM.