My Grade 1 teacher was the only adult who was nice to me at St Thomas Mores, my second primary school which I spent half of prep and half of grade 1 at. Her name was Mrs Warner. I was always late as my family only had one car which my dad took to work so my mum would have to walk me and the pram containing my baby sister up the hill to school each morning. It was a real struggle but Mrs Warner was always glad to see us and told the school that I was a good kid when they were all demonising me as a child of Satan. After I left St Thomas Mores I wrote Mrs Warner letters but that eventually fizzled out. I wish I could talk to her again. Tell her how my life has turned out and perhaps connect the dots of my past. I know 6-year-old me still lives on inside me, would like to see her again and continues to search for a kind figure like her amidst all the abuse, scapegoating, social exile and hate. She doesn’t know it is 2024 now and that the world has moved on. Continue reading “Reflecting on primary school”
“You build me up, you break me down. My heart it pounds, yeah you got me. With my hands up, you got me now, you got that sound, yeah you got me.” Ke$ha – TiK ToK
It is the first time I’ve been able to blog since my last post a week or so ago. It’s felt like the longest week of my life. I feel like I could write a whole book on this week alone. The disturbing saga continues, without resolution, like a piano with endless keys which just get lower and lower.
The psych ward only gave me two nights, even though I asked for longer. They wanted to dump me in a facility called PARC, a non-clinical mental health facility, which people stay in for a week as a “step down” from hospital, or a “step up” from home to prevent a hospital admission. But there were questions about my medical stability. I was barely eating and the hospital wanted to do a blood sugar level test which involves pricking your finger but I was scared of the test so refused it. The nurses said they’d come back in half an hour. I then got in the shower when they came to the door to avoid getting the test done. I was so traumatised in general- by life, by the way they just wanted me out when I was acutely unwell- that I became mute. I am still speculating on what is causing my muteness, which I will discuss later, but whatever it was, I just couldn’t will myself to speak. The day of my discharge one of the doctors came in and told me PARC wouldn’t take me if I wouldn’t speak. I felt like she thought I was being manipulative and could blackmail me into talking. I brought up The Shutdown Dissociation Scale research paper on my phone and showed it to her. One of the symptoms is muteness. There is some more great information about the different responses to trauma on this page.
“We don’t follow that here,” the doctor said.
She said if I didn’t go to PARC they’d just be sending me home. I couldn’t believe it.
“So you’re just going to send me home in this state?” I wrote to her, with gestures of disbelief. “This is discrimination against people with disabilities.”
Becoming non-verbal is common in autism when we become overwhelmed, as is shown in the series Heartbreak High, with one of the autistic characters, Quinni, becoming mute for a while after her horrible girlfriend put her through hell.
“I’ll get your discharge papers ready,” the doctor told me. “Have a good day!” Continue reading “Negligent hospitals, mute, trauma, autistic burn out and the fight for freedom”
In the aftermath of that night I overdosed, I’ve been hiding away as I deal with the wreckage. It’s been a few months and I still have a tremor and heart issues. My heart literally aches and it races when I change position. I’m also not able to sleep on my right side as I hear and feel the pulse in my right ear pounding. All I want in this life is to feel comfortable in my body, and if I could take back what I did I would. Sometimes I wish it had of killed me. I have suffered enough. Continue reading “Post-OD update”
hsphaven 