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THE DIARY OF A CHICK WHO WALKED AWAY FROM ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS (THE CULT)

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Go-Go Rach  once was a girl whose world was controlled by the idea that she was POWERLESS. After a chain of events, she realized she'd been lied to. Now she does whatever she wants, whenever she wants, with whomever she chooses to do it with.

Her blog chronicles the horrors she experienced in the halls of Alcoholics Anonymous (THE CULT) and the wonderful things she does now that she's escaped. *IF SHE BIT HER TONGUE ANY LONGER, IT WOULD BLEED!*

Her life is pretty GREAT.
#gogorach
#livelikeumeanit
#thatswhatsup


Wednesday, April 18, 2012

STRIKE #3 - THE NUTHOUSE


North Carolina BORES ME.

California so very much.

One of these days, I will get back there...

Additionally, this place scares the crap out of me.

The laws, people and priorities are bizarre, make no sense and, seem to perpetuate the crime, sadness and laziness prevalent in this part of the country.


With few exceptions, nearly every person I've met here is FULL OF SHIT.

They lie, lie, lie and lie some more. You all know how I feel about liars, right?

I HATE THEM!

It makes perfect sense, to me, though. Especially since I am in the middle of the mountains. What else do people around these parts have to do with themselves, anyway?

Not much.

Fantasies.

Are.

Good.

I prefer dreams...

Lately, my life has been full of NIGHTMARES.

Over-all, I'd say North Carolina will go down in Go-Go Rach history as a major FAIL.

Three strikes, and I'm usually OUT.

I would already be HOME, except for...well, ya know.

For now, let's talk about how I was intimidated, drugged, then shoved into the loony bin against my will.

INSTITUTIONALIZATION.

The North Carolina Health Care System is PATHETIC.

After nearly six months of waiting, I was finally able to go into the "free clinic" to sign up for "primary care," with every hope that MAYBE, just MAYBE, I might be able to see a REAL doctor and get the cancer follow up appointments that are SEVEN YEARS OVER-DUE!

After a long wait, my name was called by a nurse, who escorted me to her office, where she asked me several questions, including my current address, as part of their intake process. When I gave her the day shelter's mailing address, she looked surprised.

"YOU'RE HOMELESS? What happened?"

Yep. As I described what's amounted to thirteen months of SHEER HELL, I began to sob, uncontrollably, then stutter, as usual. I told her I need a doctor, therapist and a check-up, since it's been YEARS.

With empathy, the nurse asked if I would like to take a break and speak with one of their counselors, immediately.

Of course, I said YES!

The next thing I know, I am sitting in front of a crisis counselor, who is trained to turn up the heat. I suffer from chronic anxiety, these days, so it did not take much for her to have me spinning like a top...

Her questions were quick.

"Have you ever been suicidal?"

Yes.

"Have you ever attempted suicide?"

Yes, but not for more than ten years.

"Have you had any recent suicidal thoughts?"

OF COURSE! (idiot)

How many people do you know who go from a fully furnished, luxury apartment, a half a block from the beach in San Diego, to living in a tent, in the middle of a city THEY LOATHE in less than two years who DID NOT THINK OF OFFING THEMSELVES?

"Did you have a plan?"

Yep. I was gonna jump off a bridge...

"What bridge?"

The one that led to my campsite.

Suddenly, the counselor turned to me with a serious face. "I'll be frank with you. You are suicidal, with intent and a plan. You need to be in the hospital."

HUH?

Before I had time to argue, she was on the phone with a mobile crisis unit, who came by, swooped me up, then brought me to the local hospital. All the while I bawled my eyes out and pleaded that he take me anywhere else...for example, the appointment I was about to miss where I had planned to see an apartment that would be paid for by the HOUSING GRANT I RECEIVED!

WTF?

Within seconds of my arrival at the hospital, I was stripped of my clothes and belongings, told to put on a paper gown, then fed a heavy dose of ativan, on top of my regular anxiety medication (which is another strong benzo).

In spite of my protests, I was told by a "social worker" that I would be admitted to the local nuthouse. Numb, from over-medication, I begged for my cell phone to call for help. The hospital staff insisted I did not bring it. Even though I told them exactly where it was, over and over. They said "they could not find it."

In a panic, I asked to use the phone at the desk to call the director of the shelter I was in. They allowed me to make the call, but I was cut off by a scary, huge security guard who ordered me to "go to my room," as soon as I said I was being held against my will.

The next thing I knew, I had a guard at my door, a sitter in my room and a court order in front of me which read: "all I think about every minute of every day is how to kill myself." The order was signed by a doctor I did not meet, with words I NEVER SAID.

In fact, the only people I'd spoken to where the nurse and social worker, who was thrilled to let me know that I "received a grant" for my hospital stay, which I signed ONLY BECAUSE I WAS HIGH.

In any other state of mind, I would have told them to shove that grant up their assess because this was license for the hospital to keep me as long as they wanted to.

This is quite different from the experience I had when I actually DID INTEND TO KILL MYSELF and begged the same hospital to help me.

Of course, this was when I was camping out in October. I was dirty and showed up with everything I owned at the time, which amounted to a rolling suitcase of even more filthy clothes. The doctors and nurses refused to help me, since they said I was merely looking for a place to stay.

They practically tossed me out the door, with the sleeve of my pink turtle neck covered in blood, from the lousy job the "nurse" did removing my i.v. from my arm and a boxed lunch.

Gee, I wonder what the difference was this time? Um, perhaps TAX SEASON?

They injected me with more ativan, putting me to sleep, until I was transferred to the looney bin at one in the morning.

What a freaking nightmare.

Two lackeys showed me to my room, with the explanation that all I had to do to get out was take the medications they gave me and go to groups. I made a mental note, then cried myself into restless sleep.

A doctor woke me up the following morning, who had no interest in anything I had to say. His response was "you're Bi-Polar. I know it, everyone around you knows it and, you will not be released until we stabilize you on the right medications."

OMFG.

I AM ABOUT AS BI-POLAR as Buddha.

How do I know?

I've taken EVERY SINGLE MEDICATION for this diagnosis and it DOES NOT WORK.

Quite the contrary, these medications make me completely psychotic to the point of what appears to be a severe need for exorcism.

Not only that, I am WICKED HYPER & generally happy most of the time.

My bed-ridden, depression days ENDED as soon as my substance abuse ceased.

Gawd.

I fucking hate medication!

North Carolina folks are obsessed with pharmaceuticals!

So, the hamster wheel began.

I was stuck in the Nuthouse for fifteen days, of which I knew nothing about why I was there, or how the hell to get out. I was supposed to have a "social worker" who would explain my "treatment plan." She was so incompetent, that I did not see her one time, except in the end WHEN SHE SCREWED UP MY RELEASE DATE.

I was scared to death that I would be locked up forever, until one of my fellow homeless buddies came in and showed me the ropes. "Dude, keep the shit in your room that you need! You don't have to return EVERYTHING! Also, DON'T SWALLOW! Get it?"

Praise everyone and everything for this woman!

By the way, she was one of SEVEN other homeless people, who came in and out of the mental hospital while I was there.

Interesting how that happened?

Even more fascinating is how many of these folks wanted to stay, but were shoved out the door within days, due to no insurance.

I had a grant.

POOR ME.

Ain't TAX SEASON GRAND???

As I've written about several times, I've been in and out of various hospitals, since my "mother" shoved me into rehab at seventeen. I stopped the insanity at 38, only to be forced into this hell hole against my will.

The only reason I was able to escape was because I learned how to POCKET MY MEDS.

*looks around*

Yep. I stopped taking everything, except the small dose of klonopin, I had to fight to get back, since this is a state full of PILL PIGS (I've never been into pills...it's documented).

I could go on and on about the ineptness of the hospital and staff, but I don't even want to think about this horrendous experience of forced institutionalization any longer.

One thing I must say is this was the worst hospital I have ever been in and I cannot believe they are allowed to treat people the way they do. I endured more than two weeks, without fresh air, decent food or a bowel movement, while I was antagonized and treated like an imbecile.

Oh, one more thing, no one from the hospital ever bothered to get in touch with a single person in my life TODAY for information, medical records or anything PRODUCTIVE. Had they done their jobs, they would have realized they made a mistake. I was stable and about to be HOUSED, finally.

Suicide was the farthest thing from my mind, until I was IN THE HOSPITAL and put back on psych medication.

Prior to *getting it,* I would cry and beg the nurse not to make me take the poisons they prescribed because I was so drugged up, I could barely walk. She said the police would be called to assist a forced injection, if I refused.

Is this stable?

I think not.

When I was finally released from the hospital, I called the "free clinic"  to schedule an appointment with whomever I was assigned to for primary care. Get this: I still have no one. Even better, I was approved for urgent care only, which requires a ten dollar co-pay per visit!

Freaking fabulous! 

Another FAIL for North Carolina.

STRIKE #3 - THE NUTHOUSE
  




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DeConstrucor's Comment In Response to LETTER TO MY "FRIENDS" IN AA (page above)

"Brav fucking O.....Standing O fucking Vation. Or perhaps the Charlie Daniels quote from the Geico commercial of "thats how you do it son"

That was incredible.

Reminded me a little of "the letter" at the end of the Breakfast Club (perhaps the greatest movie ever)

Keep it up, dont be afraid to kick them in the teeth once in a while.

Always remember that its the misfits, the rebels, and the troublemakers that are the ones that change the world."

He post the following video at the end of his comment.

Thank you, my friend.
I am both Flattered and HONORED.
*STINKIN THINKAS UNITE!*


*This Video is here to support Decon's Words, not OBAMA (or any politician for that matter, since I've never been allowed to vote) Sincerely, Go-Go Rach.