Feeling Sick and A Little Scared

I’ve been having coronavirus 19 symptoms since March 14th. It’s become my new normal. Daily fever up to 100.6. Off and on: runny nose, aches, breathlessness, exhaustion. The aches are the worst. Muscle, bone and joint pain.

My partner doesn’t believe me, disregards my complaints (I’ve actually stopped telling him about them.) He’s a retired doctor and all his friends are doctors. He talks to them two or three times a week. He’s not told one of them I’m sick. He hasn’t told his family I’m sick. Because in his mind, I’m not. I’m faking, looking for attention, wanting him to take care of me.

He comes in and tells me one of his ICU doctor friends wrote a general note for ‘the group’ (old medical school mates that have a chat forum), giving advice on how to deal with the virus. Bed rest, isolation, someone makes sure they’re frequently turned and still breathing. I’m assuming this includes being given meals although it’s not mentioned. He gave me a vague impression he expected me to do this.

Now this actually sounds kind of nice. It would be amazing to be able to lay down, sleep, not have to worry about making meals. Except, from previous experience, I know he’d ‘forget’ to feed me. (been there, done that.) Even after making a point of asking me what I wanted to eat. Leave the room, get distracted. So, even though I’d love to just lay down, I don’t want to die of neglect. So isn’t going to happen.

The NHS was supposed to write to everyone who they deem vulnerable to the virus. With COPD and diabetes, I should have gotten a letter. But I’ve not. Either my partner has just forgotten to give it to me or they never wrote. OR my GP clinic, who really doesn’t like me as I’m not a good patent, has blocked it, somehow. It would be a massive dick move but I can see them ‘forgetting’ I’m vulnerable because, well, of our history. I have tried calling them, they are not answering the phone.

I haven’t called 111 because up until recently, I didn’t qualify by their rules to call them. I’ve only recently seen an update to call if you’ve had symptoms over 7 days. I’m thinking 25 days qualifies for that. And with that, I run against my other fear. If they want me in the hospital, I’m up against XX amount of people with the virus. Just hold me underwater and let me drown it would be a quicker, more humane death.

I’m actually becoming a little scared. I seem to be surviving the virus but it’s just taking so long to recover! And the fact everyone seems to be either ignoring me or looking through me. I am not sick. I do not exist. I am not worth the paper of a letter to let me know, ‘we are aware of your existence’.

I feel close to giving up.

19 Days & Counting

I’ve stopped telling my partner how sick I feel. He knows I’m sick. He knows I’m tracking my fever. But I’m not telling him day by day what’s happening. A couple of reasons; one, he’s dismissive. Two, he always has to be ‘the sicko’. If anyone gets sick he has to outdo them and if the only way to do that is fake something, he’s up for it.

Here’s a conversation we had yesterday. (may not be word for word.)

Him: I was talking to my ICU friend doctor who just told me he had the virus. His whole family did. His wife. His son. His daughter. He had it worst.

Me: Who took care of the family if they all had it?

Him: *blank stare*

Me: The wife did, of course. Even sick, it would be ‘her job’ to take care of everyone.

Him: He had it worst.

Me: He said.

Him: He had it the worst.

Me: (realizing this would go no where) Could be.

Him: I’m the sickest here.

Me: what? (I’m seriously surprised. This conversation wasn’t about him. Or us.)

Him: I’m sicker.

Me: No, I am.

Him: I am.

Me: You’re more disabled, but I’m sicker.

Him: I am. (he’s getting angry)

Me: yeah, you’re the sickest. (realizing he’s dead serious and getting angry.)

Him: Thats right.

I’ve always known he’s felt he needed to be the sickest in the family, but this is the first time he was so up front about it.

Now, on the other side, I’ve been feeling sick for over two weeks. My doctors office isn’t answering their phone. The pharmacy has the phone disconnected. Coronavirus government pages are underwhelming in detail. Corona hotline doesn’t want to talk to me because I can get out of bed. (I finally, finally found a gov site that advises to call hotline if you’ve had symptoms for more than 7 days. YAY! I’m going to call them tomorrow.) My partner knows I’ve been struggling to find information.

He’s been talking to his ICU doctor friend two or three times a week for the past month. Not once has he told this guy ‘my wife is sick’. Not once has he told me ‘my friend says to …’. Not once. Why? I think he has to be the sickest. And bottom line; it’s about him. Him and only him. The only time he’s shown any empathy for me is when someone else can see.

Murder by pandemic proxy. Maybe.

This is a Gordian knot of a problem. I believe I’ve had corvid 19, my partner dismissed it as nothing. One of my symptoms was muscle, bone and joint pain. Yesterday he comes in and says he fell and hurt his hip. There’s been plenty of times where he’s said he thinks he’s broken a bone and I suggest he go get it checked. He’s refused as ‘there’s nothing they can do’. So, okay. This time I pretty much ignored it. The next time I see him, he’s creeping along. Super slowly. It was so played up I thought it was fake. Still do, mostly. I hurt, he says.

Then he lays on my bed (we sleep in separate rooms. we both snore. He’s deaf. I’m not.), puts his head on my pillow, and coughs. A couple of days ago, he’s breathing hard. Right behind me. I can feel my hair moving. I can feel moisture building on my neck. I ask him not to breath on me. He says; that’s just how I’m breathing. I didn’t ask him to stop breathing. I asked him to stop breathing on me. He didn’t.

He’s never said he feels like he has a fever. He takes zero precautions, that I know of. He’s invited two people in the house after lock down/isolation.

A while ago, I’m at the fridge, digging out a snack. He comes up behind me, puts his arm around my waist, pulls me up against him, and talks into my face. I asked him to back up, mentioning social distancing. He did, but slowly, laughing into my face.*

Now, I don’t know if he’s sick – he’s displaying the symptoms I had. Cough, breathless, aches. I also had fever and runny nose, which he’s not mentioned.

I never got tested (I’m not famous, a politician, sports figure or actor. Even though I have COPD I don’t rate getting a test). So we don’t know for sure if I got it. And the jury is still out on if you can catch it again. But damn if its not like he’s trying to give it to me.

Oh, and btw, I’m still sick. I went 6 days being ill. Two days without fever, then it started all over again. From what I see, you have to go 3 days without fever before you’re considered recovered. I still get low grade fevers, fatigue, runny nose. Is it the same bout or… a second wave?

*I no longer feel safe or comforted by hugs. Especially hugs that pin me against something (like an open fridge) I feel… captured? Confined? Trapped. A few weeks ago, I got a hug by a woman. I didn’t feel trapped. But it was a one armed hug, on the side. I had an escape route. So, maybe there will be hope that someday, I will enjoy hugs again.

I had (mild) coronavirus 19

At least, I think I did. Not being a politician, sports figure, actor or rich, and living in a country that doesn’t (yet) give out tests ‘just to see’, I had to go by a site I’d found with listed ALL the possible symptoms, not just fever and cough. I can’t find it now, but https://www.telegraph.co.uk/global-health/science-and-disease/coronavirus-symptoms-what-mild-fever-dry-cough-covid-19/ gives the same information.

I am considered high risk as I have COPD.

So, yeah. Fever (never going over 99.9f/37.5c) runny nose (rare!) cough (more than usual) breathless, fatigue, aches (rare! but the worst symptom for me, holy hell, it hurt) headache spikes. I treated each symptom separately – so, parasetamol for the fever, antihistamine for the runny nose, ect.

I had gone to the hospital about 10 days before the symptoms, really before the virus ‘hit’ my country, it was kinda on my radar, but I didn’t worry about it. I think at this point, we were told 3 people had it, but none in my area. Yeah, I think I got it then, cause that’s the ONLY time I was out of my house.

I told my partner I thought I had it and he was very dismissive. At this point, he was still going out a lot. Places with lots of people. Hospital appointments, church, store. He always made jokes about staying 6 feet away from people, washing his hands.

Even though I told him when I was sick he never told me. Except one day I heard him struggling to breathe. (If it was real and he wasn’t just messing with me.) While making deep, gaspy breaths, he comes up behind me and starts breathing heavily on the back of my neck.

I tell him; ‘don’t breathe on me’

he says; ‘it’s just the way i’m breathing!’

I could feel moisture building up on my skin. My hair was fluttering. I didn’t ask him to stop breathing. I asked him to stop breathing on me. He didn’t. He left once he felt the job was done. Looking back now, I consider it a physical attack. If I get the bad version of this illness, the odds of it killing me are high. Like when people with aids were spitting on people. He knew this. He knew to stay 6 feet away. He knew how the virus spread.

So I was sick for about 6 days. Felt better for 3 days. Then it starts up again. Now, I don’t know if the virus works like that – laying low for a few days before coming back, gang busters. I had heard of one person in China, a bus driver, who had it, recovered, went back to work, and caught it again. But I’d only heard it once and don’t know if it was true. I have not heard definitely if you can catch it twice. I’d think you can – you can catch any flu more than once.

So here I am again. Fevers (hit 100f/38c this time), cough/breathless, runny nose, sore throat, fatigue. But I didn’t get the aches this time. Today is day 6 of the second round. It’s not going away.

Yesterday the practitioner I’d seen back at the hospital called, just to check up on me. Partner hovered nearby, listening in. I told her everything that had been going on. She checked with a doctor, who advised calling my doc and getting antibiotics. Now, I’d not taken them before, because antibiotics are worthless against viruses. But I got to thinking, a temp of 100f means I am fighting something. So I started an antibiotic course from my rescue pack. I’ll probably call my doctors office on monday, when they’re open.

After listening in to the call, partner finally starts to treat it seriously. Or perhaps, thinking ‘yay, it worked!’ lol. He asked if I wanted something to eat, the first time since I got sick, he asked. (I’ve been eating maybe once every couple of days, cause I’m just too tired to stand there, cooking. Lots of snacks, not much food.)

One other, last thing about my partners attitude. He strongly believes if you’re meant to die, you’re going to. He survived something that totally would have killed anyone. He wasn’t meant to die. So, hey, go ahead, get sick, what will be, will be. Not just him – not just me – but everyone. He was totally okay with going out, cross contaminating every person he met. Thankfully, lockdown has stopped that stupid behavior.

I realize this got long and doubtful too many got this far. Thank you for reading.

Now I’m scared.

They got my hopes up, damn it. Now I’m actually scared. I had managed to get into a comfort zone, ignoring things or just getting on with it. Now I have a dangling hope of escape and it’s scaring the hell out of me.

I’ve been having some tests done on my memory. Not sure if I’ve mentioned my short term memory loss. I can’t hang on to a thought longer than a few seconds. Or as the old expression goes, in one ear and out the other.

About four years ago, I’d been tested for dementia. It was past due for a re-test. My memory is even worse. But they’ve been talking a lot about other things. Lots of side glances and knowing nods. Asking if I want to talk to people and being very willing to make sure it’s ‘on the sly’, or at least, so it’s stuck in with their normal scheduling. Talking about getting me my own income support, about women’s shelters, about emotional help. I didn’t even tell them about the murder attempts. Or maybe I did, using other phrases or word clues that they recognized, that I didn’t know I was giving.

They wanted to know, if I tested positive for dementia, what I wanted to be done. Would my partner care for me? Lots of other pointed questions.

A few years ago, I was free. But the government switched their position and so it was, it was the street or back in with my partner. I chose my partner. But if I ever leave again, there will be no going back. And the government has screwed me once. They can do it again. And I’ll have no backup, no net, no hope. I’ll be totally screwed.

The last (and only) time I tried calling a helpline, I hung up before they answered. My hands shook for hours after.

They’re going to have to do some almighty talking to make me think it can be a permanent freedom. If there’s a remote chance it can go sour I won’t even start it. I can’t take that kind of fear.

I’m too tired for this shit.

The other day, I asked my partner where the large ace bandages were. I’d done something to my knee while sleeping, suspect I’d laid on it in such a way the joint slid sideways slightly. It hurt like hades and was difficult to walk on. Now, I didn’t tell him why I wanted the bandage or what I think I’d done. I just asked him where the bandages were.

Two days later, he had a ‘broken rib’.

He can’t tolerate it when it isn’t him that is the sickest. Broken bones are the unprovable go-to for being suddenly, without reason, sick. His bones have been brittle in the past, but he’s been on the ‘normal’ scale for some years. Yet he can break bones by – breathing. Sitting. Laying down. When he has a broken rib, he finds it difficult to walk. Tells me constantly he’s an old man, now. He grunts with each step. Moans picking up a cup. Takes baby steps. The problem with all this – he only does it when he thinks I can see or hear him. He takes tiny steps until he can’t see me. Then he walks normally. It’s so incredibly childish. I tell him to go to the hospital. He says there’s nothing they can do for him. I think there’s only so much faking you can do and you can’t fake an x-ray.

This is only one example. It happens every single time.

And I’ve recently had a couple of things happen that have kind of freaked me out. He knows about one of them but not the other.

I was cooking some chicken legs. Put them in the oven, set the temp and the timer, gave them 30 minutes. The timer goes off, I check on them, and decide they need another 15 minutes. I could not, for the life of me, set the timer. I’d push the little clock icon and it kept telling me 17 hours – I couldn’t get it to change! (it was 5pm.) After messing with it for a few minutes I finally went to ask him for help. About 2 inches to the right of the clock icon is a dial, that you turn, to set the timer. Remember, I’d just set it 30 minutes previous! The second he turned it, I remembered, yeah, that’s how you do it. But when I was trying to do it…my vision kind of ended on the clock icon. I didn’t even see the dial just to the right. It wasn’t there. I didn’t think there was something there. It was just …blank. This hasn’t happened again since then, but that scared the crap out of me.

Then a few days later. I feel an abrasion on my finger. Look at it and see this scab like thing. My nose had been running so I thought it was a bit of dried snot I’d not noticed. Tried to wash it off. It didn’t wash off. I look closer. There’s a divot in my finger – a gouge about the size and shape of a long-grain rice, with this tiny, hard scab. It’s deep (rice size), but it’s not red. It’s not sore. No blistering. Just a gouge with a tiny scab. I have no memory at all of hurting myself. I have no idea how long I’d had it (must have been some time, it was pretty much healed by the time I saw it. Or noticed it, rather.) And that scared the fuck out of me. I didn’t tell him about it. I didn’t want to see what he’d do to himself to top that.

Come to think of it, I think he did top it. Maybe a week later we were expecting an amazon delivery and his medication. The door buzzes, he goes to answer it. He thanks the amazon guy, sets the box next to the door and goes into the kitchen. I ask what the delivery is. He bitches that the medical people only delivered one box. I’m looking at the amazon box. I tell him its an amazon box. He says his dry goods delivery got shorted, he’s only got one box. He has gotten very forgetful lately. But that kind of confusion, I don’t know. I do know it happened after the oven incident.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. The problem with dealing with a known lier is you can’t tell when they’re telling the truth. And I’m sounding paranoid. One of the tells for getting gaslighted is you start thinking you’re crazy.

Or, as one of my ‘friends’ once said, maybe you are crazy.

I did have an appointment to have an MRI, before an as yet unset appointment with the memory people. I had a massive asthma attack and had to cancel the MRI. I asked him to call the memory people to see if I could still be seen without it. The front desk woman wanted to ‘reschedule’ the (as yet unset) appointment for six months. Partner said that the decision was above her pay grade and to have the doctor call. The doctor has not called. He has not followed up on it. They already ‘lost’ me once, missing two years of follow-ups. I guess I’m going to get lost again. I could call, myself, of course. But for two things. I’ve developed some weird-ass phone phobia. And I have a real hard time with accents, I have to watch people’s lips.

One of the reasons I put these two incidences on this post was to help me remember them when I ever get to see the memory clinic again. It may not matter.

I’m tired. Not necessarily physically tired, but emotionally tired. I don’t feel like I have any endurance left. I can’t just keep on fighting it.

I’m also having some language problems and the social problems that come from it. But that is for another post.

I’m not the only one, it seems.

A while back a young man from our family, let’s call him HA, visited for a while. I walk into the living room to find HA pacing furiously back and forth, his hands waving, talking passionately about – well, taxes, I think. My partner, his uncle, is calmly sitting, interjecting something every once in a while, which would, no surprise, set HA off on another tangent.

I thought I was the only one my partner did that to. I’d never seen him play ‘devil’s advocate’ (read: provoking) with anyone in his family. Oh, he lied to them, constantly, but he didn’t play those kinds of mind games. At least, that I could see. It surprised me. I thought about telling the kid, hey, look at what he’s doing. He’s just saying whatever it takes to rile you up. But I didn’t. He wouldn’t have believed me. I guess I’m not the only one, after all.

I am a meat sack with no value.

Many years ago, I saw a meme/questionnaire or something, that posed this question.

A woman was at a funeral and saw a man she really liked. She wanted to know him better, but he left before she could talk to him. What did she do, to find and meet with him again?
Answer: she killed someone, so he would show up at their funeral.

To a sociopath, people aren’t people, they’re just meat sacks to manipulate into doing what is wanted.

First, Trump tweets something incendiary. Then waits.

Someone with a gun, usually young, white and male, goes out to kill those people that Trump doesn’t like. And, also, maybe these young white men don’t like. He is being patriotic by taking care of a problem Trump has identified.

Next, lots of people are dead, sometimes including the shooter, and a city goes into shock and mourning.

Trump announces he’s going to go visit them, at the place of shooting or survivers in hospitals. Sometimes, they ask that he doesn’t come, but he does anyway.

Protesters are fenced off a long way away.

Trump supporters are found and given the opportunity to meet with the president. They take selfies, lots of smiles, handshakes, and compliments. Media are not allowed in, but there are WH photographers there to catch the heart-melting moments.

This is a pattern that has happened how many times? 4? 6? Enough that I see a very distinct pattern.

Trump knows when he goes to these places of mourning, people will give him an ego boost. Trump’s handlers are making very sure of this, by ensuring the place he is at, brings in the Trump supporters. (Like the last one, with the infant that had been release, being brought back for a photo op. Babys, aww.*) How long have they been doing this?

To me, this is the pattern of a sociopath. In his case, it’s murder-by-proxy, with his twitter posts. Waits for the deaths. Goes to the place of the tragedy. Meets his supporters who shower him with love. He is desperate for the accolades. Repeat.

Trump knows what he’s doing. He knows some ‘crazy/patriot’ will go out and kill a lot of people. He’s not just okay with this, he needs it. He doesn’t see the dead people as people. They are pawns, just as the shooters are, in him getting what he needs. Approval. Love. Accolades. People calling him ‘sir’.

*When I first saw that photograph, of Melania holding the infant and Donald standing next to him, thumbs up and a big smile, my first thought was he’s happy because this infants Mexican parents were dead. I read that the brother of one of the dead parents said they were Trump supporters. So I guess they’re happy their baby got to meet their hero.

What does this have to do with me? It’s background anxiety, ratcheting up more each day. America, a country I love and respect, is going crazy. Russia, blows up a nuclear-powered rocket, echoes of Chernobyl. China is building up to a social cleansing in Hong Kong, reminiscent of Tiananmen Square. Central and South America are in melt down. The United Kingdom is pushing hard for a hard Brexit, cause …oh hell, that’s complicated. Dictators and death are on the rise. There is nothing I can do about it, except go about my daily life and hope I’m not blown out of existence some day. I’m collateral damage. I am a meat sack that has no value.

I’m a woman of means!

I was once advised there were two subjects that would have the most negative impact on your marriage. Sex and money. And boy, ain’t that the truth.

Up until now, I felt fairly confident I couldn’t lay the charge of financial abuse at his feet. Sure, there were a couple of times where he was on shaky grounds. Like when he sold the family car to a friend of his. He didn’t volunteer how much he sold it for – and I didn’t ask. I didn’t ask because I knew very well he basically gave it away. I never saw a dime of it – he didn’t even just give me a couple of bucks. It went into a drawer and was handed out over the weeks, you guessed it, to his friends.

Or the time he was given an envelope of cash, which he kept in my desk drawer. I didn’t count how much was in it, I really didn’t care. But a few months down the line, I happen to see the envelope and wonder how much it was. I opened it to find 120 USD in there. When we got it, it was a good 1 inch thick. He refused to say what he’d done with it, except when I said, What did you do with it? he said: I can’t do anything with dollars! Which is, you notice, not an answer. He gave it to ‘friends’, I’m sure. For me not to notice him taking it, he had to have come sneaking in while I slept, and take out a few bills, here and there. He really can’t be trusted with large sums of money. He gives it away to ‘friends’. And I’m sure his ‘friends’ would dry up if he suddenly didn’t have cash to give away.

So, now we are caught up.

His brother recently gave him some money. Ah, let us tell it like it happened. He comes in, and says, while I was visiting brother, he told me he’s giving away some money to all his brothers and their wives. He gave me Eleventy-Thousand dollars!* in this breathless, over the top voice, that tells me he’s lying. This voice is one I recognize when he’s trying to either get a rise out of me or when he doesn’t want me to look too closely at it, but at whatever he says next. He says: He gave me Eleventy-Thousand dollars and I’m giving you half! You’re going to get Sixity-Hundred dollars! You are a woman of means! You’re rich! You can do anything you want with it, it’s yours! The money arrived last week, you’re rich!

At this point, it’d been almost 6 weeks since he got back from his family trip. I said: so it took you a month before you got around to telling me, and another week since you’ve actually had the cash?

He looks at me blankly. I don’t think this was part of his pre-planned conversation. He continues: now that you’re rich, you can help pay for any appliances that need to be replaced. ahh. There it is. The take back. Every single thing he has given me, he has taken something back. There is no free gift. New paint on the bedroom walls? Get rid of the hundreds of book. New carpet? Give away the dvds. Trip to Egypt? Stop smoking. New monitor? Oo-aw, so pretty, I think I’ll keep it.

Then the next day; you’re a woman of means, now! You can pay for your own charity. Me: you’ve always paid for both of us. Are you saying you refuse to pay mine now? Him: you’re a woman of means now! …nickel, dime, nickel, dime. And he’s clawed back a good portion of the money.

Due to some circumstances beyond our control, he has the money in an account of his other brother. Technically, it’s not ours. But we have access to it. Or rather, he has access to it, I do not. But all I need to do is ask him for any of it that I want, and he’ll get it to me. In my world, that’s called a gatekeeper.

Now I was already suspicious over the way he presented this wonderful opportunity to be a woman of means. And the take-backs. I’m suspecting something is off. So I asked him to show me the money in the account. He pulls it up, but does not open the full monthly account. The total shows not Eleventy-Thousand bucks – it shows Twentity-Two Thousand… and change. It showed, in other words, double the amount he told me.

My heart died just a little bit.

And I’m not sure why, but I didn’t press him to open it fully. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Why the hell I did that, I don’t know. I’m a coward? I couldn’t face that he would do that to me.

Now I sit here and wonder what I should do. I can;

Take the money, literally, have him pull the amount given to me, in cash, and stuff my pillow with it. It can be bolt money – used if I need to run.
Leave the money in the account and use as wished, because hello, even the fraction he’s willing to give me is more than I’ll ever see in my life.
Refuse the money, because my sense of moral outrage wants to one-upmanship him.

I could also ask him to again open the account. After all, he’s told me I can have access to the money any time. So that account holds ‘my’ money. Then, open the account fully and make sure there was only Twentity-Two Thousand in there, and that there hadn’t been One-Hundredity-Thousand at first, before it being moved along.

He’s starting to sound like a drug lord. But no, he’s not smart enough to be a drug lord. I will take his reason his brother was giving away his money before he died, so it doesn’t get tied up in taxes and lawyers. His brother would have to give away money to everyone, so no one contested they didn’t get what they should have.

The thing is, this whole thing has really stressed me out. What do I do? I’m such a damn coward. My heart is having a rough time of it. And by that I mean, it’s beating arhythmicity. I’m hyperventilating, breathing on the top of my lungs. I’m dizzy. My hands shake. I’m actually afraid I won’t make it through the night. I could die in my sleep.

And he gets all the money to himself, gets rid of me, and he’s innocent as hell. Fuck that. If I go, I want to take him with me.

No, I’m not going to kill him. I’d have to clean up the blood. No. I … seriously. The only thing I’ve ever, ever wanted, is for his family to know what a fucking dick he is. They all think he’s this kind, generous, caring, sweet guy. don’t you just love him to bits? But he’s not.

And his ganking me out of a lot of money (and making sure I have to go through him to get at it) means I can add financial abuse to his list.

*Eleventy-Thousand dollars exaggerated for comedic effect.

EDIT: all kidding aside. I realize I need to make something clear. The amount of money gifted to my partner is peanuts. I am poor – I’ve been poor all my life. Any amount of money that pays at least my monthly rent is a lot of money. Most people would consider it their coffee money for the month.

Hysterical

Back in my day, says the granny, they were called buttons, or hot buttons. When someone was emotionally manipulating you, they were pushing your buttons. I don’t think, or at least don’t remember, an expression for getting triggered. Perhaps ‘trip’, as in having a bad trip, which could happen even without pharmaceuticals.

I do have buttons that are going to guarantee setting me off. Injustice. any-ism. Inequality. Abuse. I get angry.

I had recently watched an Australian show about a woman with 2500 ‘split personalities’, which they now call Dissociative Identity Disorder. I didn’t buy it at first, come on, 2,500 of them? But by the end of the show, I was willing to concede it could have happened. A couple of weeks later, I saw a show about Sybil. Rember that movie/book? With Sally Fields. Sybil had 12 ‘personalities’. This show was called Sybil; a brilliant hysterical? Filmed in 2014. The premise for this show was Sybil was a con, her psychiatrist was a con. It was all faked – seriously, 12 personalities?

I don’t have any triggers about Sybil. I watched it with my kids, I only had good memories of it. So I wasn’t sure what had triggered me. And boy, was I triggered. I couldn’t sleep, my heart was racing. My hands shaking. My mind spun around. They wanted us to believe 2500 personalities in one person, but not 12 in another? And my god – hysterical? They called Sybil hysterical?

And boom, that was it. They called her hysterical. She was angry. She was hurt. She was defending herself. Hysterical? Oh, hell no.

That’s how it happens. A woman get angry? no no no. She’s hysterical. A man can be angry. He can be enraged to the point of murder. But its women who are infantized. Demeaned. Crippled by the social expectation to eat it. Swallow it down. Don’t show anger. If you don’t, you will be called ‘hysterical’.

Fine, you think the Sybil case is just a big con. Fine. Say that. But say she was hysterical? Fuuuuuuuuck no.

I am not hysterical. I’m angry. I am fucking pissed. In the immortal words of JI Jane, ‘Bite my dick‘.