Letter to My Husband

“Salvation is here…”

From a popular Christian song.

I could never figure out why they didn’t do anything when they took me out of the ambulance literally kicking and screaming back in the summer of 1986, after I lost control after stopping the Mellaril (an older antipsychotic medication) after getting out of getting out of the state hospital and returning to my mother’s and father’s new home here in PA (they had moved here from northern New Jersey in ’85.)

They didn’t want me here. I was exhibiting strange behaviors that I now know to be have been caused from improper use of the older anti-psychotic medications in Cambridge, MA. My father had a new Bell Labs position here, following the AT&T break up and was very nervous about it. He and my mother were also nervous because I was starting to talk about the sexually inappropriate incident when I was 17. Since then, I have become aware of a lot of other stuff that was going on that they were covering up. All I knew at the time was that terrible thoughts and feelings were flooding my mind and I completely cracked up. I physically lost control, my mother–who had been threatening that she would ask the new next door neighbor to help her “force a pill down my throat,” and also almost broke my thumb in the skirmish that followed–walked into my space and I exploded like one of those funny little plant buds we had in the garden in New Jersey that unfurls in a burst when you just lightly touch it. I wasn’t even aware of touching her.

But, I wasn’t a plant bud and, once I got onto the psych ward and had recovered somewhat from the trauma I was terrified because I realized that she must have been bruised all over. The former doctor there, the one who had sent my to the state hospital at their request, refused to work with me. He said, with a question mark, “You assaulted your mother?” Well, actually, no, I didn’t. I had some kind of fit, or seizure. My father was right there. He just stood there.

So, obviously, he made something up about what happened to suit various needs in their precarious situation: I had “assaulted” my mother. “Disregard the screaming fit, look what she did to her mother.” (It is highly likely that they took pictures of how she was hurt.)

What was I supposed to say?

I was assigned to the crackpot doctor who handled multiples personalities and the like, difficult cases. He said, “Why did you do it?” I searched my mind for an answer. (The fact was that it was a helpless physical reaction from being hurt by the catheter in the ICU. I just didn’t know it at the time. That was all blocked out.) I said, “I did it because my father sexually abused me.” He said, “You beat up your mother because your father sexually abused you? That’s crazy.”

(Later, he asked her if I was sexually abused (I was.) She said, “No.” That’s what he told me. A few minutes later one of the nurses came to the smoking room with a 5-inch long needle containing a 6-week injection of Haldol–another older anti-psychotic medication, to me and many others, the worst. They had to hold me down.)

I went back to the state hospital. The doctor said that I had to grow up some more.

So, this evening, I finally realized that it really is true what I thought sometimes; that they told everyone to blow it off about the kicking and screaming when I came out of the ambulance that time, which contained extremely necessary information about my crippled condition resulting from the overdose and insane pain that I was going through. My mother was an incredible bitch. I am revisiting this situation because now she has died. My father is still trying to put me back at the state hospital. That needs to be over now. I am very sorry that she got hurt but I got hurt a lot worse and I paid for her hurt and well as experiencing mine ALL MY DAMN LIFE.

Signing off, Alex, I pray that you can finally see my mother for the person she was.

This is a true record of true events.

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