Kweeny's Greatest Hits: HYDRA [full album] By Otep Shamaya

"Rising like a Hydra...FROM THE ABYSSSSSS...."

A part of me wants to delete this journal. When I look back at my mad ramblings I feel a sense of shame. I shouldn't, I mean, it was my experiences, and all of them were real. Even the ugly parts.

I know the health care professionals gave me the wrong drugs, and I OD'ed accidentally on some of my medication. I was so doped up at one point (at my doctor's requests) that I took extra of my meds. Like a day or two's worth of extra meds. My husband knows better than I what really happened there, as everything has been falling away into an acute feeling of torture that the meds were inflicting upon me.  I still am not sure I want to forgive him for his part he played in this horrible ordeal, and I know he's done certain...things behind my back while I was wailing in agony. What ever happened to loving with an open hand?

I think I have the right to be mad at people mistreating me even if they think they are helping. My husband at least tried to do it out of love. Can't say that about everyone who treated my afflictions. I am aware of more things than people realize. I know my mental stability was shaky. I know I am being treated like a guinea pig by some doctors. I know a lot more about what is happening inside my body than anyone else at this point, and if people won't listen to me, then I will find a second opinion.

I am done with being life's pincushion.

But my empathy makes it so I can help people, but it also fucks me over. Having FEELS sucks. I was a calming presence to many of the patients in the last ward I was sectioned off in just a few hours ago, and that is part of what kept me sane. I was in almost complete isolation from the outside world. Days stretched into what felt like weeks, and sometimes, even months. My time sense is fried. I just broke out of "jail" yesterday afternoon.  It was hard for people to visit me, let alone find your way around the facility. But I still made friends. Like you do when you are Kweeny Todd.

But look at this face...I wasn't coping well at all.

And as Anne Lamott says, "If people wanted you to talk kindly of them, they should have behaved better."

Also, you can be killed with kindness.

I'm not even sure how to begin this entry. How do I explain all the things that happened? I was put into three different areas of the medical facility I was kept at, and only two were in the same hospital. The way they have all these sections set up are ridiculous. They should have them all labelled the same damn hospital, but they don't. And I was placed in an ER at one point that was a completely different hospital from the one I originally was involuntarily admitted to under my husbands "gentle" suggestion.

And yes, I am pissed at him. Even if he feels what he did was justified.

Because half the shit that happened wouldn't even have existed had he not smothered the living fuck out of me. I'm not made of glass. I don't care if I am hurting or not. Wailing at the walls. Clawing at the gauze...

"Oh she's so coy..."

He treated me like a cripple, and that is ultimately why I am pissed off. Taking my anatomy away is bullshit. I felt like I was being treated like a weak, helpless woman. Not the fucking battle fury I am. I am the Queen of Blades, and to treat me anything less than that is treason to my internal Crimson Court. I have been through some shit, it's true. I needed to be in the hospital, which is why I eventually called the nice paramedics to take me to the hospital myself. I realized I had been so fucking triggered by someone who swore, FUCKING SWORE, to be my battle buddy and stand by my side, that I could no longer function like the Kweenybeast I am.

Hell, I have been non-functioning since I began fighting for my health.

I am a health advocate now. If it's in my power, I wont let anyone be forced to endure the bullshit I was put under. Because within a week or so I went from being in a very nice 4 star hotel version of hospitalization, where the sign read "Rehab" but it meant all forms of rehabilitation. Including helping chronic pain patients cope with their lot in life. But I was also tossed into a cold, white-walled cell with only a small pad on the floor to lie on. No blankets. no real clothing. I was forced to wear these fishnet undies while I was bleeding from my period. A period that was triggered by the excessive birth control I accidentally took too much of on top of my other drugs...

I wailed. I cried. I laughed in manic glee, and I clawed at the walls. I had flashbacks in one constant loop put on repeat, over and over, as my back spasmed uncontrollably and my Raynauds flared throughout my body. I was so fucking cold, my toes went white. White isn't a good color. Nor is purple, which is what my fingertips did. I am covered in bruises from too many pulls of my blood, too many times I writhed like a serpent in agony. Too much of everything.

Three different sections I was placed in. One was a lovely rehab center, where they treated me like person even though werewolves really hate cages. I was mischievous there, and allowed to be so. I was pampered and treated like I was actually struggling with chronic illness, not JUST having fucked up allergic reactions to drugs and accidentally taking way too many things. They didn't let me hurt myself any further, but they let me keep my sense of self.

Not like in the ER, where they literally broke my mind.

The third place was a middle of the road kind of deal. It wasn't the Hilton of the mentally deranged, but it was sure as fuck better than the ER. I'm now on an Outpatient basis and I have a million things they want me to do that a wolf with swollen ankles has to find a way to get to. I got appointments all next week, two with very little breaks on between on Monday...I hope I can get a ride from someone as I don't own car and rehab doesn't care about your wheels situation.

*sighs* Let's talk more about the ER and why it was traumatic.

The time I was admitted to the ER and then thrown away into the "padded cell" was the worst. And that was one out of the three times I was forced in by my husband. This was the ongoing problem of why all this turned out so poorly. I think like a She Wolf. I am not a cripple, even if my ankles are swollen from meds, or even when I am rambling like a loony. Treating me like I am incapable of making choices for myself is going to make things worse. People who don't have chronic pain need to LISTEN to the person who is SUFFERING with it before making judgments on their behalf. Because I am almost ready to divorce my husband for what he's done. Being married to me is a PRIVILEGE, and me allowing you to have a say in my health and healing is a GIFT. it's not a RIGHT you get to throw around just because you are biologically male and happen to be married to a female.

I didn't choose to be female. And I didn't choose to be in pain.

Everyone wants me to just forgive him for what he's done. They remind me he loves me and sometimes, I agree. Sometimes I can see what he was TRYING to do. But I know what REALLY happened, and he has no clue the hell he inflicted upon someone as bad off as I was.

And it's not over.

I have an invisible collar around my neck now. I have to jump through some hoops before I am left alone to fend for myself. I have more doctors than I can count and more coming. I have amazingly great therapy options coming next week, where I can journal and art and learn to cope with Chronic Pain. I have help from the hospital to get my GP to X ray my back and send me to Neurologist. Because I didn't fall in bad ass combat as I had first thought. My fall was in the bathtub, not at a LARP, and my mind was so ashamed of having an "Old Lady" spill that I re-wrote history in my brain to protect myself.

*sigh*

I wont say all of my experiences were hellish, or even that the people who monitored me in the ER were all bad. They had a job to do. Sometimes my cell had no toilet and I pissed on the floor. Other times my toilet was made of cold steel, and my scrubs gave me a rash. My scrubs went from soft cotton with light colors, to a deep dank blue green like the sea. Sometimes I wasn't even lucky enough to have real scrubs. Sometimes I wore the equivalent of a blue sack.

Sometimes I saw myself in a asylum of old, with padded walls stained in tears, dirt and blood. Sometimes I was so loopey, I spoke in tongues. Like the weirdo I am, I wore black contacts at one point and could not get them out of my eyes. Sometimes I slept on beds that adjusted themselves all night, and other times I slept on a brick and was expected to sleep all night long with my back flaring like roses opening their blossoming petals of pain all through out my body...

I can feel my wings now. And they hurt like hell.

I can feel every one of my Selves now. I know there are more than 4 now. They all cycled through me, over and over...as my soul burned. It felt like violation. Not a vacation at all, but an Involuntary stay at Hotel California.,,

And I survived it all.

When I finally broke down, people stopped hurting me. But I had to literally shatter in the ER before they let me out. Before I got to go home to my husband's accusatory gaze and his fists clenched ready for another verbal battle.

If he had treated me like I was capable, I would have never gotten so bad. I would have left the first visit in Hotel California with the tools I needed to heal. I would have had an easier time getting to this place, were people take my chronic pain seriously. I did need to be locked up the first time. I wasn't doing great at all. I was spasming almost on a constant basis, and I was mentally unfit. I needed to be in the right environment to help me cope with my pain, without the whole "killing me with kindness"bullshit. Showing love and support is one thing, smothering is another.

I didn't need the last two times in the hospital.

If you've every seen a dog or wolf cornered, you'll understand the error he committed. I may have a thorn in my paw, but I won't listen to someone who calls themselves my pack to DEMAND I do as they say. He may be the tired, worn out king of the mountain, but I am the one who is the mad Queen drowning in agony. This is MY pain. And I would kindly like to be allowed to OWN it on my terms.

For the curious: My current list of conditions are as follows:

I have Bipolor, Chronic PTSD, High Anxiety, hyper vigilance, PCOS, Fibro, Raynauds, and I am a multiple. My doctor may or may not believe I have any of these things, because in my fibro fog I has unable to grasp reality firmly in my grip. Taking me to rehab the first time was a great idea, so my husband gets credit for that much. I am in terrible agony as I write this. ACUTE agony you might say. I also have a back injury no one has info on just yet. The same one from almost a year ago. My back pain is spreading all over my body. These are some of my little labels they used in the hospital to define my pain.

But it isn't WHO I am. Nor does it describe the depth of my agony.


I AM Kweeny Todd. AKA: Queenie T. That hasn't changed.

But now if you excuse me, I need to deal with some pain in my back that is stabbing me with a million razor blades, and my hands are stiffing up. Because I am just peachy keen right now. I'm SUPER, thanks for asking!

Stay spooky Monster-Kids.