DaVinciFreedom

I cry aloud to God, aloud to God, that he may hear me. In the day of my trouble I seek the Lord; in the night my hand is stretched out without wearying; my soul refuses to be comforted. (Psalm 77:1-2) ............................................ A journal chronicling my struggle as a woman, to find my way out of an abusive relationship, and to find myself again.

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Location: Georgia, United States

Thursday, August 19, 2004

Coming to take me away, haha

Crap. Heckuva way to start, eh? Sums it up, though. Of course I'm going to write the details anyway.

I went to see my shrink today, the Wonderful Wizard named John Connell. I spent most of last night wondering why I continue to struggle. Same-old, same-old, blah, blah, blah. I was in a fine state by the time I got to his office.

I got a ride from Logisticare, the Medicaid-paid van service. My ride came to pick me up at 12:30 and I got to Dr. C's office at 1:15 for my 2:00 appointment. I had a lot of waiting to do. It wasn't so bad. I met a lady who had brought in her 7-yr-old daughter, who has Asperger's. Her name was Hannah, and she reminded me so very much of Emily at that age. I told her she was lucky to have had her daughter diagnosed at such a young age. But people are finally beginning to realize that a lot of cases of 'ADHD' are not that at all, but Asperger's. My neighbor's kid has ADHD, and he is nothing like Emily was. He's a wild child! Hannah's mom, too thought Hannah was autistic until she began talking at an early age.

Then my friend Melinda came in with her three kids. I can't believe I've known her for 10 years now. She and I were part of the 'original' Laurelwood Gang. Anyway, I talked with her for a while, until it was time for me to see the all-wise man himself. Please know I say that with a bit of sarcasm. As much as I love and admire my doc, I never had a crush on him as so many patients of his have. All I ever wanted was for him to be my doc, and that's all he's ever been, for the most part. I think he's hugged me maybe half a dozen times over the past 10 years. We are friends, too, on a certain level, but only because we have a lot in common.

I don't know why I strayed there.

Anyhow, I was a real mess by the time I got into his office. I was tired, and I guess my defenses were down, because I started talking and crying almost immediately, which I don't usually do. He finally told me to STOP. He said that Emily was exactly where she needed to be, and that I had to stop trying to rescue my kids from everything. He said I've made them selfish, which is very true. Funny how that works. I wanted to save them the pain of a cold and distant mother, and instead I sorta 'overloved' them. Therefore they often feel that anything I can't fix now is my fault. Even the older kids. Of course it went deeper than that, but I do try to give the short version.

Then I just whined, I guess, or maybe not....I certainly was ranting, anyhow. Money, Dale, money, Dale, somebody to love me, somebody to just touch me for crissakes, money, Dale. On and on. I got a scrip for Valium, and a hug(!), and I left. Couldn't stop crying though. Usually the tears I shed in Dr. C's office magically dry up as soon as I hit the door. Melinda's boy, Dalton, asked me why I was crying. "Just a little upset," I said. "I'm sorry you're crying," he said. Hell, I don't get that much caring at home.

Tracy (receptionist) called Logisticare for me, and I went outside to wait. And wait. And I still couldn't stop crying. I was sitting in the shade under the crepe myrtle trees, just feeling like I was going nuts. I had bummed a cigarette from Melinda, and wondered if burning myself with it would calm me down like it used to. I wondered if it would hurt.

It didn't. But then Dalton and his sister came outside and said, "Whatcha doin'?" He hadn't seen, and I hid my arm and put the cigarette out in the grass, feeling stupid and guilty and ashamed. I have a huge blister on my arm. It shocked me.

After Melinda left and Tracy had called for my ride again, I went back inside, still crying. Tracy came out into the waiting room to talk to me, and asked me if I thought I needed to go into the hospital. I said, yeah, I reckon I do. I told her I couldn't, though. I had to go bumming tonight in Helen, so I could get some money for smokes to take with me. No way I can be locked up without smokes. Tracy asked me, "If I give you some money for cigarettes, do you promise to come to the hospital tomorrow?" I told her I would. She gave me five bucks, on top of two Melinda had given me, she hugged me, I gave back the Valium scrip and I went back to waiting under the tree. Now I had another reason to cry. I hate telling Dale and Abby I'm going back to the hospital. Why couldn't I just get bleeding ulcers or something? There's no shame in that. For that, I might even get flowers. Maybe even phone calls and visits. Yep, if major stress is gonna manifest itself in you in some way, bleeding ulcers is the way to go. Depression has so, like, been done. So lame.

My ride finally came at almost 5:00, and then we had to stop at another doctor's office to pick up a woman going to Toccoa. Valerie, the driver asked me if I minded going there first, and I said it was fine. But we had to wait nearly an hour for the woman to come out. The van was having transmission problems, too. Didn't want to shift, and when it did, it was with this whiplash-inducing jerk. It didn't get any better on the way to Toccoa, which actually was Eastanolee (?), outside of Toccoa. By the time we dropped the other lady off, it just didn't want to climb hills at all. Good grief. And then as we were almost to Cleveland, the van ran out of gas! (I am not making this up!) It was almost 8:00PM by this time. Valerie called another driver who came to give her some gas money, and when the other driver offered to take me the rest of way to Helen, I jumped at it. After we'd gone a few miles, she said. "I'm glad I only had one glass of wine so far." Yeah. Me too. It was almost 9:00 when I got home. This is what being poor means. It means you get a whole day taken out of your life for 30 minutes in the shrink's office.

When I got home, my neighbor, who is Indian, asked me to talk to his 17-yr-old son, who was just released from an overnight in jail for breaking into a Coke machine. Poor Boop. (I call him Boop because I can't properly pronounce his name. Other people call him Bob. I like Boop.) He barely speaks English, and this incident really has him rattled. I think he hoped that since I can speak the same 'culture' as his son, maybe I could talk some sense into him. Hmm. Boop knows my daughter is in jail, too. Lotta good I'm gonna do. But we actually had a really good conversation. He's a good kid, but way too Americanized. Sad.

After he left, Dale said he had good (relatively) news about Emily and the Macon YDC. Someone had called him to get permission for Emily to take GED classes. He asked her a lot of questions about the place, and was quite reassured. Emily is in 'Cabin D', there are no locks; it's a dorm-style setting, which of course Emily had not seen yet when she made that first frantic call. Still the razor-wire, but this place is not like RYDC. It used to be a juvenile boot camp, but since juvenile boot camps have been outlawed (thank god) in Georgia, it's now a regular detention center, where she'll get some education and some counseling. and a whole heck of a lot of 'structure.' I hate that word. But it is true, as Dr. Connell reminded me, that kids like Em can be very, very manipulative, and the strictness can be a good thing. Lord knows loving her to pieces hasn't worked.

So I do feel somewhat better, except when I happen to see this damn blister in with the other scars on my arms, and when I think about going off to Laurelwood tomorrow, once again. Damn. I have worked so hard, and come so far. To be sliding back this badly sucks. But I am at my wits' end. How do you explain to a cat, looking up at you with trusting, quizzical eyes, that you haven't got cat food?

And I got home too late to go spare-changin', so I'm off to the loony bin with no smokes, and no money for drinks. But it's all good. At least they have toilet paper.

G'night

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