Serial Killers, Survival, and Vulnerability (PTSD trigger warning)

I have known more killers than decent people. this is a thing that haunts me daily. I know what  it is to be hunted. This has dogged my thoughts for some time. I think it does every survivor. My father was a serial killer. My husband. My uncle a serial rapist. My mother complicit in the crimes of my father. My grandmother potentially was a Black Widow killing her husbands, I do not know enough of what she spoke of to be sure. She lied a lot, she was confused. She admitted a past history with drugs and being committed once for her delusions. She lied in the same manner as my father. I hated them for it. I think I still might but mostly with my family I am a numb cold space or a raw wound. There is nothing to love, except the fantasy of what I wanted them to be.

I think a lot of people have these fantasy parents. Loving them more. Loving them equally to their siblings. Not all fantasies are like mine, where the fantasy is still a demented reflection of sitcoms and mistaken love. Fantasies that contained no joy. i did not know joy yet. Yet. I think most birthdays make me retrospective. I suspect this is human nature. We have been alive a span, perhaps it comes from survival and the need to understand what we are doing right. I am very good at survival, which is why I am now thirty.

The predators in my life have not all been flesh and blood. I once drew the attention of a serial killer who mistook me for prey. He sat down on a park bench beside me and my friend, I lied about our names out of instinct. I thought something was wrong. He scared me. For a long time my escape was attributed by myself and those that I knew to being psychic. I am not psychic. I am astute, despite brain damage my brain functions at ahigh capacity. I have an eidetic memory, which despite how TV shows is not all that perfect. I am smart. I also am experienced with monsters. At this time my experiences with peace were limited, though I had not yet fully trespassed into darkness. I do not know what I read in him that told me he was hunting but I knew. So we ran for our lives.

Our run was not clean. The way out was not truly running alone. It required we swim through sewage. It required that we ruin our winter coats consigning me to a cold winter. It required the revelation we disobeyed our parents. She was more terrified of that at first, until she noticed I was not wrong and the hunter followed his prey. I will never forget the white truck, the partial liscence plate remains though I no longer can transcribe the numbers. His smell. HIs breath. It is etched into my memory. My friend and I looked alike. Pale, big eyes, matches for his victims though younger. The youngest of his hunted that they know of. He knew our names, despite my lying. I introduced her as Gabrielle and myself as Barbara. Something trite, Silly. Instinct. Lie. My brain screamed it so I did without hesitation and without the usual queasiness that I associate with lies. The irony of my preference for writing fiction, explained easily with that being a story and no one being required to believe it, with that sickness with a lie does not escape me. I think that this is also why I write about what has transpired in my life, what I think as a result and study myself in order to understand a way to cope. It has gone beyond that many times. My need to think it through and comprehend has turned out to reflect in other survivors. Now I bond with people. Now I know that this is strength. Just as that day without the ability to swim I found it.

We ran. Fast. I dislocated my hip running, it never was the same. The first pelvic dislocation. I did not let it stop me, it hurt. We ran past the police station because I was primal. I wasn ot thought. I was simply a gazelle surviving. My friend did not think. She was too frightened that he was driving after us, chasing us in a car. This is why I went thee route I did. His vehicle in that small town was not known to me. This is the only part of small towns I like. Strange vehicles are known. This exists where I live now too, it is such a closed off area. Small towns and the War Zone, the ghetto, the gang area. Whatever you call it. Isolation exists here just as there. There is less crime here. I find that ironic. So we ran. One of our friends, more hers than mine as was true of them all I was simply the smart kid they let help them with homework in exchange for friendship or other things along that line, was the daughter of the chief of police. I knew her house was safe. I had run there before when afraid. Her father believed me. He was the first authority figure to believe me on bad things. I was raped by a schoolmate, emulating his father. I showered, which was what my mother taught me to do. So proof was lost. I assaulted that boy, I took bloody vengeance. I never have regretted that. No charges were pressed, even after I ended up stabbing the kid with a fork in the cafeteria. He believed me. He told me he did. Realizing how pivitol not being believed is, that is why this is in my head. That stabbing was weeks before this occured so I knew it was safe and I ran. He would have caught us if not for the location of the police station and his house. He was very close before he saw the sign.

It was raining. It was august. The man knew my birthday. He told me he knew. Just as he knew my name. He knew my address. I am lucky in that home never felt safe. I did not feel safe in a home until where I am now. Safe was so foreign that I did not even know how to define what I felt with that primal knowledge where to go. If home had felt safe or my friend’s home had felt safe, which it did not due to her abusers, who forbade our contact because I knew with them too. I told them so. I did this to protect myself during a sleepover, other abusers I kept silent on. I see them in many places. This too is for survival. If you can identify the predators they cannot hunt you. I woke up with her mother’s live in boyfriend looming over me, so I hurt him and showed him my power. I was just big enough. He limps still, I dislocated his knee cap. Though that one may be dead from his drug use, I damaged him permanently and he feared me. It was the weapon I knew how to use. A “gift”. The man hunting us that day was one I knew I could not take.

We made it to the house. She was too afraid to even speak. I told my friend who was home alone to call her dad. Not nine one one. She did. I told them everything, down to his partial plate number. They found his truck. It was a work truck for a farm he had found a job at. Just passing through. I gave them a description. They brought in photos. I pointed him out. They never found him. He found himself. I do not remember if it was months or weeks but the next time I saw his face was when he was on the news. He lived in Mexico. He hunted in the US up and down railway lines both active and defunct. He trailed right through and we were the fit for what he hunted. He knew more about me than he did her. I was his prey. I was vulnerable at that time, exceptionally so. Predators prey on vulnerability. There is nothing a person can do about being vulnerable to a point. There are small things you can do to offset that but there is no “cure” for it. This is why I know escrima, carry a taser, used to carry pepperspray before it became too much for me to handle, and do not go out alone. Self defense courses are vital. Doing things to feel confident is vital. Yet truly vulnerable people cannot stop being that. A part of me will always be vulnerable. I have accepted this. I am now accepting that it is okay for me to have escaped things like this, I have felt guilty for a long time about those who did not. I used to dream about this man’s other victims. I have not thought about him in a very long time. I cannot quantify the time.

I have survived. I did tell my mother that the man on the TV was the man who hunted me and my friend. We never went to trial to speak. I am not listed in his wikipedia page. I checked. I do not know if I am a known quantifier there. For that I am relieved. This man crossed countries to kill. I survived him. Perhaps I am not the only one after all. He is dead. He has been since 2006. I did not know that until tonight either. I do remember talking to the FBI. I do remember this being recorded. I do not know if they had mercy upon me or understood that stress could break me.

Soon I will begin writing a fictional story. I am ready. My body not so much but my mind has begun to spin a tale. It is dark. Just as my life has been. You write what you know. I know survival.

Heroes and Villains (Trigger Warning)

Victims of abuse and horrific crimes all tend to watch violent TV as long as it is not too triggering. For me I realized this is my need to see bad people like those I know being persued by valiant heroes who rarely to never fail. I dislike redundant writing but a part of me needs the reminders that the world has the heroes to match the villains.

I know many villains and I know too few heroes. The heroes in reality let me down. The good christians turned away ignoring what they saw because surely someone as devout as my serial killer father could not be bad. My exhusband wore a similar mask. I see him for what he is, the man I loved and married. The monster underneath. If he had not met me and I had not survived he would have killed more than four women before me with one surviving to enable and myself. I escaped and it drew out madness in him. I cry as I write this because a part of me still wishes I had died. That part of me is twisted, broken, and full of jagged edges. Broken glass, bleeding, eternally damned. That part of me is a little girl hiding in the darkness, holding her breath so that the predators cannot find her. There is no healing for her that I know of though I try.

My father and my exhusband both had similar desires, similar tortures. Neither comes up in these shows often. It has only happened once and I pulled out my keyboard and began to write this. My father, the greater monster, who tore his children apart physically enabled by his wives, has never turned up. Just my exhusband. Charming, smart, but not as smart as me. That was his reason for hurting me. That was why I deserved it. The wife should not be “better” than the husband. She is supposed to be weaker. Most of me is weaker than he was. My body is made up of fragmented illnesses, autoimmune diseases he took as a sign of God’s wrath at my survival. He demonized me publically. He threatened me constantly. The part of me that is stronger than he was, just as with my father is my mind.

A part of me will always be a victim. I cannot shed the wounds physically or mentally entirely. So I need these heroes. When I spoke about my father and told the police, my mother, and the church leadership he was killing people. They turned away from me. I was told by the police I was lying because small children make up lies with graphic detail about murders all the time. This is sarcastic. No child does. Yet that was the excuse to decry me. My mother told me to be silent, because she did not want to die. My minister? He told me it was a sin to turn my father in. I think they all believed me but the horror of it was too strong, and who would believe a little girl? Sexual abuse is erased for the same reason.

I spoke up about the neighborhood predator after he hurt me because the pain was bad enough I was afraid of not fulfilling my father. I also waited until we were far away from the city because I was afraid of his killing the abuser. I had already had worse but I knew it was wrong. So I told my mother, who told my father. Surprisingly the rapist whose first name was Joe? Went to jail. My father lost his temper in public, which was vindication for me as the world saw. My sensei? He told me he was proud of me and let me hide. I ran to him not my own father to hide from the two of them. My sensei knew everything I think but had no proof. I know if I had just told him I would have had it all end. I did not because I already knew no one would believe me, so I sought my shelter with one of those valiant heroes and for that time it was enough.

I never hoped that the pain would end. I never could. I married my husband still living in fear for my life. Every single day. That fear abated only after he died. My father died and that seemed to set him off. I became freer you see. I began to make plans I could not with that man alive. My mother? She hurts my soul but I can take her. The irony. I am crippled by their crimes but I know without a doubt that I can break her if I have to. So the fear is only there when she is present. Evasion is a grand tactic. I suspect she reads my blog. She may know where I live for now but that only lasts a bit longer while I go apartment hunting. I will be free of her once more.

All these monsters in the world with their victims shouting out. The reason people watch these shows varies but perhaps the other survivors, victims, those like me trapped forever in between with strength and that inner wound together also need to see their heroes. The survivors. The episodes I prefer end with the villain bested by his victim. For I have done this. I know it is the truth.

The episode that set my brain on fire was Criminal Minds’ limelight. The villain is a mirror of my husband. His clothing, his hair, his face is not so much the same. His MO? It was what my exhusband was becoming. It was his desires though his targets were only disabled women and children. Beings he thought he could infantalize. When I failed to be helpless it set him off and he devolved rapidly. To a point he could not survive. My resiliance over the years of attacks drove him deeper into a frenzy. He returned to his enabling victim, he trained his children in the arts of abuse. He died. My survival killed my abuser.

The heroes shown saving the day are not present in my life. I saved myself. The police turned away when I called for help, once I finally could, with my exhusband. Just as with my father. It was not as damaging as when I tried to press charges against my father still with in the statute of limitations, with him confessing guilt, for the rapes and abuse. The district attourney told me I was not worth the effort of prosecution. He told me that my abuser was worth more than I was. I was 16. I was in torment. I build a bomb. I decided if the abuser was the one with the value I needed to become a monster. After my sixteenth birthday when it was all so painful I decided to kill everyone I could and myself. I was saved by my best friend at the time, the one who introcuced me to the taste of hope through television. You see I do not just watch crime shows and other dark things. I watch cartoons. Batman, Sailor Moon.

Batman came out of abuse. A pain. A trauma. The gravest loss any child can have. The loss of family. The loss of identity. Fragmented. Broken. He rebuilt himself to be the hero. Sailor moon… the heroines are all children. On the cusp of their womanhood. It is in fact the power of their divine female power that gives them the ability to take on villains and save the world more than once. Buffy too later fulfilled this role. Not as potently as a heroine who cries, shows her utter terror and grows into the role. Usagi never hid behind smart remarks. For many years I did not know how to cry. It has been three years since I finally could. It is still difficult. I think that these tears matter however. It is okay to cry, not just because crying is human but because it was forbidden. My tears are a sign, as distressing as they are to Sprite, that I am healing. I am not just a victim. I am a survivor, and to survive means that the wounds heal. There are scars. That little part of me which never fully heals is scarred.

So i am going to find a way to get those tattoos I desire. I am going to mark myself to celebrate my survival. I am going to move. I am going to continue to do the one thing all the villains in my life have tried to deny me. I am going to live. I have cried the entire time I wrote this out, Sprite is interfering in my typing, Sprite is upset. I am upset. Its okay. Some of this vulnerability is due to the surgery. It stripped away my ability physically, my energy, and I am not okay physically enough yet to truly defend myself. So I have been reeling with this mentally. It was there under the surface and boiled up. I have been waiting and I am relieved.

The heroes who enabled the villains are villains. I always give people the benefit of the doubt when they talk about their experiences as a result. This does not mean blind belief but I do not tell them they cannot experience, have not experienced. I investigate. This has lead to me being the hero many times in adulthood as well as childhood for others. I was saved from blowing up people and being the bad guy by assaulting my best friend over a sandwhich. I confessed it all and I went …to help. Where I was denied help in all the ironies. Other children worked with me and we saved one another.

So now I can cry. I can cry. I can cry. I do cry. I cry for the youngest me, the oldest me, the me that is now, the me that was, the me who could never be. I cry for the children like me. For the heroes who are truly heroes, for the do exist. I cry for them all. I cry. Then i can smile. Then I can laugh. My tears washed away my depression. I do not think I am truly depressed anymore. I have moments but my heart has flown for a long time. I know joy more than sorrow. I know pain yes but the anger is not omnipresent anymore. My walls when I moved into this place I plastered in butterflies. I did this because I did not want to die if i saw a butterfly. I have not thoughton killing myself outside of the morning pain ritual where in I wake up in tears, take my morphine, then get on living for several years.

What is whole? I may never know. I may be whole. I do not know. I think that the persuit of life is more important than being a complete being, and can one truly be incomplete? I know feeling, now. It was forbidden too. I thought I did not know love and could not love. That was the reason I wanted to kill the world. There was no love. I wish I could reach back and comfort that child, screaming for love. I wish I could love her in person. I love her now. That took a long time. I feared that angry child. I loathed her. I hated her. I tried to pretend she never existed. I love her now. I cry for her. To hurt so badly and be so unseen… the only person to see me was a teacher who I was going to wait until she was not at school to kill the world for.

So reader, if you have made it this far in my primal wail, I have a favor to ask. If a child, adult, or someone in between asks you for help, tells you they are afraid, or whispers that the world is full of serial killers… then listen. Get them help. Help them. Show them someone hears them. Even if they cannot be helped directly, that single person hearing them can save their life,their soul, and their future. It can be the difference between giving up or suffering. It is the difference between death and life itself. I was tortured every day of my life until I was thirteen, when I managed to for the last time before adulthood tell my abusive father to fuck himself and was big enough to stop the violence against myself. That moment did not change my life yet. It took time for me to understand it.

The irony is I left these episodes playing, and the next one as I wrote that just after had the villain try to take on someone who could fight back. HIs bad. You see, I can and did fight back. It set a precidence. I could. So I started fighting everyone. Now I still fight. I am an advocate. I am a warrior. I fight for people who cannot and myself constantly against discrimination. I am a warrior and always have been. No one can hurt me now, unless I let them. I have answered my door with a taser and sent a burglar running in the last year. Delicate, paraplegic, crippled, broken… warrior.

I am still afraid of that wounded part of me and the anger there. I think that gives me drive to change the world. I am an autistic savant, I am intelligent. I am strong. I am between genders. I am tattooed in my soul. I am many things. I am a survivor of so many bad things, and every day I live for the good. I do not cry every day, its still very rare. I am entering my favorite time of year, Halloween approaches. A time for masks. I understand why I adore it. My parents hated it, and it was a chance to be exactly who I wanted. A hero. My early costumes, even now still homemade, were all heroes. Trashbag and a swimsuit let me be a Xena that was good enough people did not have to ask (Yes I did have tin foil armor plating and a frisbee chakram.) I always wanted to be those heroes. I am going to sit down and enjoy the capture of these villains by these heroes. I am going to remember, I am that hero. I was three the first time I spoke up against my father. Three. I was so brave. I knew it. I expected to die. Every time I spoke up. I expected to die. Now? I look forward every day to live.

The Update I didn’t want to make. Washington Federal steals from Disabled People.

I am alive. I am also annoyed. I keep trying to update with nice things like the fact my carer is awesome, and the agency sucks. I keep wanting to update on helpful things. Instead I am going to paste my facebook status about Washington Federal bank who stole from me. Flat out. Stole. Shocking? Doubtful. It is a bank. Do I want this passed on? Yep. If you are with them should you run? Far and fast.


This post is public. I want to have you all share this because the bank Washington Federal is underhanded, slimy and needs to lose customers. I didn’t ever open an account. They bought my bank. The building is in accessible. My account was bought out in 2008. The first thing they did was lose it. I had to find proof of my account amid surviving my exhusband’s attempts on my life, my disability issues etc. Their building is NOT ADA compliant. THe doors are too heavy for my carer to open without struggle, there is no button and often they ignore you trying to get in. When I settled for the drive through as I couldn’t juggle between banks and everything else. They called me after and miscounted money. They wanted me to drop what I was doing and go back to make sure they hadn’t given me too much. On the contrary they shorted me but I was not wanting to challenge the seizures that can happen when i deal with numbers so I had trusted. That never occured again. Several seizures and migranes and counting and the next few times same thing. So I only went inside and only when I had to. A friend helped me set up a bluebird account. I had a free account, and left enough to keep it free and hopefully save.

A few years of this bullshit go by and every visit is accompanied by a promise they are working on the door. I stopped pretending to believe them. A transaction where a friend sent money to pay for vet bills went awry and they…lost my money. Again. Why didn’t I close? At this time there weren’t alternatives and my exhusband’s financial abuse meant I didn’t HAVE options. If I wanted my SSi to pay bills I was stuck. Soon though that changed with the shift from paperchecks to bank cards. I switched immediately as often my bank didn’t have my pay on the first and this endangered my ability to keep my home and eat. Living on six hundred dollars a month for years the added stress was one I didn’t need. So I kept the account as an emergency back up with 100 dollars. It was hard but I decided an emergency may happen.

I with drew seventy five of it last year because I had uncovered medication I needed and no alternative. I got my first statement since then a few days ago with no money, and a notice of closure today. The statement arrived on a Saturday and yesterday (Monday) I was dealing with other things related to my health and the surgery I just had. so I call. I sit on hold for ten minutes not trusting them to call me back and get told how I should feel bad for the BANKER in all thisbecause he has had disabled and elderly relations die. Their inaccessible bank tells me this is probable bullshit and he doesn’t care. The fact that I am now out money because they felt they could change policy without actually notifying me? I am just screwed.

So if you bank with Washington Federal CHECK YOUR ACCOUNT. Their irregular statements sent whenever they feel like it are an issue, i will be filing complaints over their head and in the end? Just close the account if you can. I considered it earlier this year and regret not doing it since I now DO have options. It just means I can’t cash a check. I don’t really get those often anymore. Pass this on, because if you care about yourself, others, or just want banks who treat people this way to go out of business its the only way. For the strangers who read this I am extremely disabled with multiple health issues which are rare and untreatable, I live on SSI which is now 700 a month for rent, food, utilities, and the care for my pets. Assistance is something everyone needs and when a bank loses your monthly check then you have to prove you had an account multiple times but you are trapped and they know it? Its horrible. No one should be treated this way. My anger doesn’t have much pull but you being aware does. So share this. Spread it around. The fact that they couldn’t treat me with basic respect and expected me to just be happy about this is the worst part. The fact that apparently I am the same as a dead person is strange to me but the management doesn’t care.

If you want to call the branch and personally let them know you heard about this, this isn’t my legal name (not giving that as this is my preferred name) but you can talk to the manager Juan. Their phone number is 505-291-3700. Feel free to ask them questions about this. They will lie, they will give bullshit answers. Ask them about their inaccessible building and wait for the excuse of “We’re working on that.” There is no excuse for this behavior. For those in question the specific building is the one on Eubank but all their locations are THIS BAD. The bank they bought out was actually quite good. I am going to the better business bureau. I am going to push but we all know Banks are seen as untouchable. If all their customers leave? They aren’t.


I got a carer on Wednesday. I wanted to wait to be sure she would come back at least two days before I started to breathe again. The fact is this only happened because a politician got involved. Congresswoman Michelle Lujan Grisham’s staffers jumped onto this when one of the people linked realized that might work. I entered shut down a bit ago too and my brain feels like it has been smushed with a hammer repeatedly.

It isn’t really over. I find this a problem, but yesterday I had a visit from adult protective services where the employee tried to get my therapist’s name from me but only after I made it clear I am not done until we prevent this issue from ever happening again. She too told me how many other people were put into the same situation but assured me no one DIED. That is like waving a red cape in the face of an angry bull. That means this can be a class action suit but I am not sure if it is Medicaid, Bluecross or both that get sued. Somehow no one dying is supposed to make this okay. Somehow having a carer now means I am supposed to forget suffering, the still there infection in my flesh and my pain. Somehow that is the expectation.

I have been betrayed by the system meant to protect me. My carer is not supposed to help with the cats even until Bluecross finds the papers on Sprite being a service animal. This is not done. It is progress. Massive progress. I can maybe recuperate enough to get everything fixed that needs to be fixed. Yet it is not over. If it was over this would not be the obsessive priority of my stress numbed brain. I came close to dying too many times for this to be over. No one has said “We apologize for our colossal fuck up how can we make it up to you.” They have said, “Yeah so others were effected too, you don’t get to have anger.” I had many things destroyed including my lightsaber, my waredrobe, and even some of my bedding. I have no HAND TOWELS to dry my hands on when i wash them.

So we have progress. I am lawyer fishing after Monday. Monday is my first section 8 inspection so I find out if I need to move or not. The house is actually almost up to normal levels of clean, though I am still going to make it clear to the section 8 lady that I was on my own for months so she can write off some of the not quite cleaned things. In three days my house has been made beautiful. I will post video once we get the Gothmas decorations down.


The Voicemail

This is what I posted on my facebook after finding out that at 343 pm today, well after I had made calls of desperation and pushed myself into physical and mental shut down, that Heart to Home called back and I get the same carer.


“So I had shut down today, for quite a while. Not that thisis a surprise given everything going on. Tomorrow Miss “She came on to me because she was naked” is going to supposedly be back. Except she will not do anything cat related. Ie litterbox, cat water dish, and cat meds. I also have a voicemail stating that I need to respect all boundaries. Cause I am to know those without them being stated.OH and I can give her my debit card and she can get groceries. I am sure they are presuming I have foodstamps right now, but not for a little over a week. Not so shockingly they get used up.

This is CLEARLY not going to work. I am sure my being quiet and probably surly because I do not want to even come close to saying something wrong will be the next issue or when I shower. So much frustration. ”


I considered uploading the voicemail because I recorded it with my tablet. The condescension here is that I knew the boundaries and willfully ignored them. WHAT boundaries? Boundaries are set via communication. So I am updating here and … it is not over. Clearly. Why would they send the same woman? Its a new company run by “experienced” staffers. The owner went back to nursing school and stuff. Etc. So I should be bowing down with gratitude because… if I concede to living in a house with no cats I can have care! I cannot live with a filthy litterbox. I cannot make the cats live without water or food. I cannot continue to make them go without their meds. So if I give up my service animal, who should be accounted for in the hours, then I an have care. If I let them stripmine every little good thing from my life I can have care. I mean who wants to go outside.

Words (Trigger Warning)

Right now I am marking all of the posts as trigger warnings right off before I write them as its all triggering. The bondage of silence is a trigger for people, the abject pain, the endlessness. There was no call from the agency today. Just like with the failgiver from yesterday calling in to them Heart to Home felt that I did not need to know. Just like they do not need to provide care but I can somehow do it all. I find it hard to push on at all and last night I did go to the ER. I couldn’t even call for myself I needed to get help from someone on facebook to get help. I am just glad I could ask.  That is the clearest thing in all of this. The only reason I am not dead is because I CAN log in to the internet. I CAN get help. It may not be the superman style rescue that I think just about everyone in this situation wishes for but the effect is better. Often the physics of a superman rescue would be actually deadly anyway and the goal is to live.

Pizza 9 donated food, Rebecca from one of the EDS support groups helped me get care, Linn helped me coordinate people local to me. Heather helped me get pain meds. Michelle helped me get more food. J donated more phone minutes. When I see the picture of the moment, as words for me start out as a still image I must describe theree are hands reaching for mine as my fingers are dug into the cliff edge. The rock is hard, it has cut my hands and I am about to fall but They will try to help me up. THat list is also a SHORT list of people helping and not at all entirely full. I cannot list everyone, some people would not want to be listed but I wanted to show the reverberations of impact. Mentally I would have given up a few days ago without the reaching hands. Normally that scenario would be scary as I hate touch even in my imagination. Even internet hugs freak me out sometimes. I still crave them but that just weirds me out too. The hands are not hands of horror either.

I just slipped into a nonverbal barely able to make sounds state and cannot do the tablet typing for making words either. Its a state I try to avoid but is a side effect of a lot of things. The ER treated me well, there is a long story with piles of amazing understanding (Lovelace Downtown Albuquerque). I had a melt down from sensory overload and something about one of the EMTs triggered PTSd at the same time. I also have had migraines my entire life and never said so. The best way to explain how the ER helped other than standard medical care (which was done with no fuss at me about the allergies just “Can we try this? ” until we figured it out) was sensory aide. The lights were off, but the door was open since I needed it open to be less freaked out. Before turning them on I was given a chance to put my beanie over my face (better than hands or closing eyes for sensory stuff) and no blood pressure cuff since it was painful and making the sensory things worse. They also asked what I needed. There was so much but that is the best “show you” statement.

They gave me some numbers to call in the hopes of a resolution to this and while those case workers could not help me one of them DID in fact make a few points clearer to me that helped. SO I budgeted the words and practiced the things to say and still bungled it. The Bluecross receptionist was possibly the most patient receptionist I have dealt with. Word salad, which is when the wrong words come out and a bit babbly, Being unable to be loud enough. It was probably clear to people on the phone I was crying. She was calm, patient and did more than I expected. Same with HER supervisor. I tried to tell them what an amazing thing she did. Being in the twixtverbal state and no hint of rushing is vital. She checked in on me while I was on hold, kept me updated on her efforts and made sure I understood she was helping without it being “SEE WE DO HELP SHOUTY SHOUTY”. Soothing, calm, professional and direct.

Her supervisor was also patient in the same way. I knew I was failing to be understood because of the disability aspects. I can type all this out because of silence. Sprite is letting me have writing time and she has confiscated the phone a few times today and turned off things. She is being a good service animal but that doesn’t mean its not frustrating. I can pause and not have a fear of the word flow ending in text form with no expectation of an answer. So I gave the URl of this blog to her supervisor. That is actually why I am posting this now and not later. I want it clear I am grateful for them doing their jobs and accomodating my needs without it being an imposition. In the last month that has not really occured much. I have instead been told over and over again to keep calling agencies. keep pushing. Except that I cannot push anymore and even then was asking for help because I couldn’t do it.

So I broke. I doubt the Heart to Home people actually read my blog when I tried the “go here. This explains what I am trying to say” method. If they did they would have read my hope and relief that someone maybe came. Now they are in the list of agencies that I feel betrayed me. I feel betrayed because I must entrust my life to these people and they are in essence executing me. I cannot go to a nursing home. I am not going to get fed, and to me a nursing home is where one goes to die of boredom and neglect. You are a prisoner. I cannot go to appointments on my own pushing my limits and hoping that around the PTSD of travel, the exposure to inevitable allergens because i am allergic to everything I remember. I cannot just live off of two bags I can lift by myself to get them onto the bus of food. Yet I am told cares do not do grocery shopping.

Over and over the needs I have are used as the reason I am not able to be helped. Medicaid and my insurance NEVER paid for this tablet. This one was a friend helping me after the car accident last year destroyed the first one, which I paid for out of pocket from a settlement for damages from the bus company (who just went “How much do you need? here is a check” no drama despite the legal terms). I set up my initial carer stuff myself. Everyone keeps going “Well use a social worker” but despite the use of different terms the Bluecross representative IS that person. So the pressure pad, the never ending wheelchair repair, the need for an inhome care nurse, the need for my carer? I am supposed to ask. I have asked. The answer was “Do it yourself.” Not in those words but “I understand your communications disability. Call anyway” is not acceptable.

I am tired. I cannot even figure out answers to how people can help at this point but I think a part of that is, being far away there is a limit to the help available. This is not an emergency money can fix. Some aspects are aided but those are akin to taking medicine to treat side effects of other medicine. Its a stopgap and not really going to cut it. I did get the section eight things started and the property manager who I really do not get along with has this month been REALLY nice. I even emailed his boss and went “Hey so this is what is up, and you should know he isn’t making it worse and actually helped.” I try to make sure people know when they do well but I am not well enough to get there. They almost kept me last night because my blood pressure is high. It was borderline enough I could leave at the end of the night but it was close. I do not want to be admitted because I do not feel safe out in the world, exposed. Agoraphobia IS disabling too. Yes I go out, I do things, I push myself but I can only compensate so much for all of the things in my internal system that do not function. There is nothing that functions correctly.

I am not giving up. I am just unable to get the prescriptions filled to help me fight the infection I cannot clean on my own. Yes I am going to when I can get Sprite off the phone and am allowed to use it text the woman who helped me with groceries or the woman who helped me with the pain meds but I shouldn’t BE in this condition. I should be saving excitedly for the Convention i want to go to in June and celebrating my section 8. If I had not made alternative plans on how to get there (bus, broken wheelchair, nintendo and starting out VERY early and staying out way too late) I would NOT have had the meeting. The twofaced failgiver could have cost me that if I had been able to trust her enough to call. I cannot trust anymore. A thousand assurances, fourty tomorrows (guestimated), plenty of “I understands” and the only real effect is other disabled folks holding out their hands and helping me hold on to the cliff longer.

Now there are no tomorrows being said just silence. Yes I am sure my upset middle of the melt down attempt to work out something for today did make it worse but that doesn’t make it bad. If they even listened to the messages or had paid a tiny bit of attention it would be clear that I was at the limit of what my brain could do. I am actually dizzy from writing this and will have to lay down now. I wanted this all said one more time. Service cats and people who either read this blog or have known me online for years have kept me alive. Bluecross Blue Shield, Heritage, Premiere, Heart to Home and the other failgiving agencies like El Mirador? Haven’t. What is most distressing to me is how Heart to Home has lied to Bluecross, Heritage LIED to adult protective services and no one believes me because… I am the vulnerable party and have nothing to gain by a lie. Nothing.

I do not benefit from any of this. Heritage does. They got paid money they should not have and they got rid of someone with needs they did not want to meet. They also admitted they neglect their clients, kept a thief on as an employee and made it clear they do not know how reptutation works. Heart to Home does. “No no, we got her groceries” sounds good. It sounds like help. Except that they didn’t DO that. Just like I do not yet get to shower. Sponge bath at the ER is it. Not actually clean. Wounds are clean but I want to clean my hair then shave it off (shaves better clean) and I just want to go to sleep, knowing that when I wake up I will prepare to let the stranger who had a background check in, my cats will be fed. i will be fed and maybe I can have enough energy to go to the zoo.

Now I have to just survive. I will not stop fighting or shouting and this isn’t just going to go away once I have care. I am going to try and find a way to change the system so this can never happen again. Yes this is directly to Bluecross and the agencies out there. It is NOT okay that I spend all my days working to help others when i can, and help myself and hear about people who died from neglect EVERY day. Its not okay. If I die it is murder. When others die from neglect it IS murder. I am averaging, to just the post about the neglect with the video 1000 hits a day. I looked at my stats and saw that. I am going to survive this so give me a happy ending. Then help me FIX the system. You all have that power. It also is great for your reputation. I like to say nice things about people. LET ME.



A Question (Trigger Warning)

So today the carer I had yesterday and was hoping to blog about when she actually returned filed a complaint. You see I had no clean clothes left and I asked her if I could just get naked and send stuff with her. I actually left underwear on and she said this was fine but reported that I was being sexual while nude and she was uncomfortable. I am left in the dark here because nothing I said or did was intended to be sexual and I cannot figure it out. When trying to figure out what was going on the Blue Cross people and insurance people both told me different things, and after hours of processing while riding the bus to try and deal with Section 8 I was left asking… Why am I being expected to perform as well as an able bodied, able brained person? That is the real jist of the issue as I see it.

I do not think anyone failed or is out to get me out of malice. I do however think the system is broken. There is a clear cut expectation that if someone does not do their job I can just pick up the phone, call my mother and viola. It is all fixed. Except that my mother would probably kill me or in some other way cause me harm, lives in another state and the people who I have been relying on are friends of friends or friends from the internet. My nudity was a solution to the quandry of having enough things to wear to get to the end of the week, given the loss/theft of my laundry. I was asked why I did not just buy more since I have SSI. Apparently Blue Cross has no idea how much that is. I left a very snarly shouty voice mail trying to communicate this. A mistake. Though I cannot apologize to them for it because I am not sorry that I had a melt down when I have been pushing myself to survive their broken system. My SSI just got raised ti 720 a month. REnt is 420. Electric is between 30-120 dollars depending on the season. Internet is supposedly affordable but Century Link is trying to force me to pay 80 dollars rounded up for my one luxury. (Long story short: WORST COMPANY EVER). After that I have my 150 in foodstamps that must cover the things I drink to get around water, food and is about to be cut. SO I often have to fit cat meds, laundry and enough liquids to not die in. After that there is the need for transport fees as the bus costs money and apparently caregivers are no longer allowed to do things like errands etc. I am waiting to blog that bit until I have it in writing and can process that in a manner that does not leave me with a terrible headache and stabbing sensation from trying to communicate in a way that does NOT work for my brain.  I saved thirty dollars over three months to get a skirt that I NEVER got back. I spent money on laundry I had to rewash to get to wear. I am supposed to magically replace the gifts my friends have given me that allow me to protect my head from the sun and feel pretty. In all that.

I am asked too why I didn’t just send her in two trips for laundry. Funny thing. I didn’t think of it. Neither did she. Apparently she did not quit, according to Blue Cross. She did according to Heart to Home. I feel a bit bad for Heart to Home as they ARE trying but I am out of my ability to communicate. I am past my ability to function. My thirty hours allow for people to cook, clean, aide me in bathing, help me with errands such as groceries and medicine, remind me to take my meds, help me dress, and a variety of other things. I have had a woman who could not figure out the stove, and forgot her time sheet. Its by my front door. I have had weeks of “Someone might be there tomorrow if we get that paper.” I have had “Just keep calling people, on your phone with limited minutes that you must now fit into your budget so that you do not die. Ahaha you wanted to pay bills. SO funny!” I have had “We are trying.” The one thing I have had that I do not believe is, “I understand.” No people at Blue Cross and Heart to Home. If you understood you would stop expecting me to act like someone without autism, a brain injury, a spinal cord injury, ehlers danlos syndrome and who DOES NEED HELP. You want me to NOT need your services, because that is how you are acting. That is not what they really want since this would cost them their jobs if every disabled person just healed.

So if they understand it, why after 35 days of not knowing whic way to turn, pushing to get things done by myself even when it causes me injury, eating just junk food and rationing that since junk food costs money, making more calls than I can cope with every single day am I supposed to think AT ALL much less have the brilliant comprehension of someone’s unspoken discomfort. How exactly does that work?

How also am I to feel sexual when I am in so much agony, passing fist sized clots that the doctors cannot figure out or fix, with no medication for most of that time and barely being able to see straight? I am sorry your failgiver, because yes someone who does the two faced dance of “No its fine, let me report you” no matter how skilled IS a failgiver was uncomfortable. I get you want to convince her to go back but I cannot trust her now. I have to presume people tell me the truth because I cannot tell. I tried really hard to say all this before going out into the land of PTSD triggers and riding the bus where I was verbally assaulted, sat on by someone who was a greater biohazard than my bathroom and sensoraly assaulted as well as exposed to allergens. How am I supposed to perform normal when i cannot manage that WITH AIDE, to get AIDE.

  • Polls

  • Ye Olde Archives of Fury

  • Top Rated

  • Top Clicks

    • None