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Tuesday, August 05, 2014

To My Most Frequent Reader

To my most faithful reader in Santa Cruz, since you view my blog every time I post:

A mutual friend ran into me today and sat over coffee with me for awhile.  She said you told her I had a 5150 (three and a half years ago). She understood when I told her the true story, said that she was upset about being told in the first place and did not believe the insinuation that I am some insane woman who traipses in and out of the nuthouse.  She had told me she wanted to find me and talk about it (apparently this happened some time ago), but did not know how to find me (she is not a Facebook sort of person, apparently).

Even my adoption worker and all the social workers involved in this adoption knew about my breakdown, which happened after I was sexually assaulted, and said I am obviously fine now. No one would let me adopt if this were not so, and especially not in this county. I was required to have a co-adopter after I went on chemo because my doctor could not guarantee I will live long enough to see my little one grow up, not because I was hospitalized for a breakdown or because I am bipolar 2. F. stepped right up to the plate; for all his flaws, he cares about this little girl that much. And he took care of me during the worst time of my chemotherapy, vaccumed up my fallen hair from the floor,  and cleaned up after me when I was sick and did not make it to the bathroom. I could not have kept my little girl with me if someone had not stepped up and helped me, then as now,....and losing her would have destroyed me. To lose her beloved grandma would have destroyed her, too.

Note I have never had a breakdown since  the time I was hospitalized (not even close) even with all I have been through. I needed to be safe back then and I took responsibility to get myself to a safe place for a few days. It could happen to anyone.

 Here is why I went to the hospital, in case you have forgotten: I WAS SEXUALLY ASSAULTED by some predator who came up behind me and groped my private parts in a dark club while I was next to you. I froze in place and said nothing, a common reaction when such things happen.  Exactly the same thing happened when I knew I was going to be raped, too.

Afterwards, I had a major PTSD  reaction because (as you very well know), I was raped as a young woman: raped with a pillow pressed onto my face so I would not fight back, under threat of suffocation if I did.  The rapist did this with full knowledge that I am a lifelong asthmatic and my greatest fear is not being able to breathe. Any sexual assault after something like this, even years later, even "less" than this, can trigger PTSD, among other things.

 Just for the record: my "5150" was NOT SO. My presence in the hospital was 100 percent voluntary (for what, about a week, and when I knew I was better and set up the aftercare I needed, I then checked out and went straight back to the university classroom and my life, and finished out my semester quite well, which is not what insane people do).  NEVER  have I had the slightest inclination or need to return. I don't blame you for misunderstanding the basic facts of my hospitalization (most people do not understand admissions issues in behavioral health and think everyone there has been 5150'd. I did not even understand that myself, at the time). How I was treated afterwards did not help, but that is water under the bridge; I helped myself, after all.

 Honestly, what on earth have I really done to you except give you the freedom you said you wanted, at the very moment I knew you wanted it?  I have neither contacted you nor tried to see you in any way since the moment you asked me for a break in communication; I never will again unless you yourself ask for it. Can't you just take that and let me go with an ounce of respect for the years we spent together?

It's not right, but somewhat understandable, that people blow up at each other, fight, and be very mean during a breakup as we BOTH did, but being mean like this so many months after, is not something I think is right.

Can't you exhibit basic human decency for someone who would still, after all this, after EVEN this, fly to the remotest corner of the planet if you were (God forbid) sick, or hurt, or scared, and only if you wanted me there, to offer you basic human kindness so you would not have to struggle alone?  Do you have a bazillion people in your life who care about you like that?  If not, show some respect for the people who really do.

What I chronicle in this blog is emotional anguish over losing my job, my health, entering chemotherapy and all its side effects, losing you, etc., in a matter of three weeks. This type of tsunami could shatter any person, but it has not shattered me. I write here that I carry a stone of grief in my heart; one day, that stone will not be there, or will be small enough to carry more easily. I write to try and understand this journey, which is one of the most painful ones of my entire life.  I write here every day in the great hope that the grief will lessen someday and I will learn what I need to from it, as I know I will.  I do not write to make you look negative, or anyone else: I write to heal, and to make sense of incomprehensibility, and to move on. I am not a victim; I am a writer who must write to see my way clear.  Perhaps someone going through a similar journey can find hope in my words as I go through this.

Please let me go.  I ask this even though it pains me to ask, even though my deepest heart says, "Never let me go." Stop trying to make people think I am mentally ill, or crazy, or whatever it is you are trying to do; telling even one person is too many, especially after all this time.  It makes you look ignorant and foolish as well, and I suspect most people see through it when you try to cast me as some nutcase, especially people who know me.

Let go.