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| "The Flying Pig" Created by Bob Murphy, El Cajon, San Diego, CA |
Anyway, a series of events and angry outbursts caused me to lose all my friends. Some abandoned me, and I abandoned others. At the end of it there was nobody left. I was on my own, and was seriously thinking about hurting myself. I told my doctor about what was going on, and he recommended that I do a “partial.”
A partial is where you are partially admitted to a mental clinic. You do not stay overnight, but is five days a week from 9:00 am to 3:00 pm, and entails intensive group sessions five times a day, two private sessions twice a week and meeting with your psychiatrist once a week. Participation is completely voluntary and you can stop whenever you want.
Normally these sessions go for six weeks, but my doctor suggested that I do four because of my job and my insurance might not cover the full six weeks. My first day there I managed to alienate everyone in my group by bragging about being a published author, having a great job with the state and generally talking too much, mostly about myself.
Complicating matters further, there was a young woman in my group who was a professional dancer, and having studied salsa for two years, I wrote a novella about my dance teacher who just happened to share her first name. There was no sex in the story at all, but in the last few pages the main character has a conversation about his dance teacher with his Madame, who happens to be a close friend.
Anyway, she was deeply offended by my story and took it up with her case manager. The powers that be decided that my behavior was inappropriate and made people uncomfortable, and I was transferred into another group with a bunch of retards. I felt so betrayed and angry I told my case worker I would stay just long enough to get the skills I needed to cope with my anger and depression, but there was no way in hell I was going to allow myself to be incarcerated in this program for the full four weeks. She was condescending and aggravating to say the least.
After three weeks, I had learned all that I needed to go back into regular therapy and demanded to be released. She had no choice but to process me out. She told me that part of the process was to tell three people that they affected me in a positive way and thank them. I told her that after my reputation was destroyed and I became an outcast I had no desire to have contact with anybody whatsoever, and that her request only demonstrated her total ineptitude on the whole affair, and then asked her if she knew about a Great American Novel that was published in 1951 that became the single most banned book in American history.
She had no idea what I was talking about, and then I asked her if she actually read my novella, and she told me she hadn’t because that would have been a privacy issue. Stupefied by her response, I asked her how she could judge me by something she had never seen. She said the decision had been handed down from this woman's case manager and the psychiatrist in charge of the program. I shook my head and told her that she was way too stupid to hold the job she has.
I signed all the forms necessary and left with a bitter taste in my mouth. Regardless, I learned what I needed and am doing much better now. To hell with all my old friends; I am making new ones, and I have a positive, outgoing attitude. I am nailing book events on a regular basis, and have nearly exhausted my immediate area and will have to start going regional. My publisher is very happy with my progress, and is going to continue investing in me. These are good things. Life is good.
Love to all!
James M. Weil
James, I will read more of your blog, because, well, for lots of reasons. One of them BEING your honesty. I read your synops and came to this part, and I will read it but not this moment. I'll share some of that perspective thing, hard won that.
ReplyDeleteMy family life was complicated (it is now but a completely different way, shows to go ya,you step out of one quagmire into another, because it is kinda sorta the beast you recognize so want to hug it and squeeze it and name it george). For all kinds of reasons my father wanted to control me. When I left home, it was a blast off into space defiant act, that no one saw coming, because I forestalled the argument. But it was merely from my perspective I didn't want to be talked out of not doing it. From theirs I was putting it to them, ingrate.
I starved and scraped (and ultimately 'failed') but at one point asked for $10.00. I figured it wasn't that much, my father was comfortably off,having been Reagan's financial advisor's business partner. I saw parents who paid for their children's tuition, and actually brought food, paid their rent and provided clothing. I didn't think it would be too much and I would pay him back,when I had it, which was an amorphous time.
Well a boyfriend took me out to eat, and when I walked to the Greyhound bus terminal to use the nearest payphone, he remarked his chagrine at my late call. I made the mistake of saying "I went out to eat," his assumption, I'd had the temerity to use his funds, and he cut me off and demanded payment. I dutifully paid him back and didn't eat for a little while more. He was later on generous, but I never asked him for another thing, other than to send me far away with both of us knowing I'd never see him again alive.
A very similar thing happened right before he died, but I won't bore you with the details. I'm so sad I disappointed him. I believe from his perfect perch he sees it may have been more problematic than he gave me credit or debit for.
We all have failings, we all disappoint and are disappointed by the people we care,sometimes we don't even KNOW they are there. Desperation does strange things. But realize that desperation is a two way street, just as love is. Have more hope, and unless you advocate the harm to the weakest, the destruction of this place I love, or lie, then suffice it to say, you may write things I don't like, but I will love you and remain your friend.