Entry II.23 (2026)
Dreams are an active, powerful part of my life. I work things out in them. I go on adventures. I meet strangers I will never see again. I briefly fall in love with old and new people. I experience lives as other people doing things I will never do. I have lucid dreams where I can make choices on what happens. I can fly if I only believe I can.
In my dream, a house I traveled throughout was familiar. I recognized it as a dream place I had been where a nasty man and bad spirit had terrorized me in the past through secret halls and rooms. I remembered his name as Nastrodamus.
I was going nowhere near his secret places. I had been alone before but this time I had a baby changing sometimes to a puppy to protect. I wasn’t going to be terrorized by him again.
“Nastrodamus,” I called out. “I’m not going to take any shit off you. I know who you are. I know your name. You’re getting nothing from me.”
I didn’t care if others fell prey to his tricks. I had a baby to protect and tolerating his nonsense was non-negotiable. I went on the offensive, calling him out wherever possible. He didn’t get me though he tried. I kept saying, “No way, Nastrodamus. I’m on to you.”
In the end, he gave up. The final scene was me leaving his area and passing through a darkened room where his next victim was quietly sitting at a table by a window. I was satisfied to see it was a subdued, chastened Donald Trump wearing a black Covid mask. I thought that was as it should be and felt satisfied.
It’s fitting it’s the 54th anniversary of my going to Western State. It was the first day of my beginning to heal.
Entry II.24 (1994)
The Troups didn’t speak with one voice in my head like Sasifraz. They were more like a chorus of little kids clamoring for attention. Gradually, Sasifraz faded away. It was the children I had to attend to.
*******
(1972)
Despite the choking incident, Kathy and I remained close friends. Her room was in our hall. I neglected Konrad during those two months. I felt bad being inattentive but Kathy was riveting.
I also made friends with a volunteer named Jeri. (I know. Two Jerries. You’d think one was enough.) Jeri was a beautiful woman with long dark curly hair. In college summer break, she might have been an intern they called a volunteer. She was there several afternoons a week. I don’t know why she took a liking to me. Those afternoons, the two of us walked around the Western State campus talking. I looked forward to our walks. They were special.
One afternoon, Jeri didn’t make it. I was hanging outside with Kathy. At the end of the hall was an outside door with a cement porch and three steps to the grass on the side. There was a waist high railing opposite the door. In warm weather, they let us hang our there unsupervised if no girls had been “acting out.”
I was sad when Jeri didn’t come and was once again talking suicide with Kathy.
Kathy said, “You know what? I have a plan.”
(OH, GOD. NOT THIS AGAIN. I can’t believe you did it again. IN MY DEFENSE, I WAS A MENTAL PATIENT. Excuses, excuses.)
“What is your plan?”
Kathy became animated and picked up a stray cinder block. “I’ll put this here.” She placed it on end below the railing. “You sit on the railing with your back to me, fall back, and hit your head on this block. It will kill you.”
There must be something to this errant stupidity. I knew she had a plan but I didn’t know what it was. “Okay.”
I got up on the railing with my back to Kathy and the cement block. I don’t know where the determination came from. Sitting up there, I let go over the railing unsure what would happen next. (Talk about a trust fall.)
As I went over backwards, I saw Kathy bend down and remove the cinder block from the path of my head. I had time for two thoughts. “Oh, so that was her plan,” and, “Oh shit, she failed to consider momentum and the concrete base under the railing unsure.” I flashed on these just as the back of my head hit the concrete.
I was laying there dazed when Kathy started yelling, “You idiot! Look what you’ve done.”
I was barely talking, “What?”
“Get up! Get up?” She pulled me up shouting and calling for staff. “Come on. Come on,” she said as she pushed me back down the hallway. I was only aware that suddenly she had nothing to do with anything that happened as staff took over my care. It was all on me.
I was poked and prodded. I felt woozy. I felt like an idiot but that was irrelevant. I had to deal with what was coming at me from staff. “Are you bleeding? Do you have a headache? How many fingers am I holding up?”
I was finally allowed to lay down but then was tortured for the next twelve hours by having a light shined in my eyes every hour. Obviously, they were worried about a concussion and it’s complications.
They asked Kathy and I what happened. Kathy never owned up to her part. I never told staff what really happened and accepted the full blame. Kathy was two years older than me but staff never realized there was a secondary dynamic at play.
The sad part was the misunderstanding with Jeri. The next time when we were walking, she said, “What happened, Joceile?”
I started in, “When you didn’t come, I wanted to kill myself…”
“You can’t blame me for that! It wasn’t my fault! You can’t lay that on me.” Understandably, she got angry with me. I felt bad. I hadn’t meant to be manipulative. At least, I wasn’t conscious of it. I had to work hard to get our relationship back.
I steered clear of Kathy for the next two weeks and then she was gone. Kathy ran away which was a cardinal sin for returnees. She wasn’t allowed back. It was shocking. At least, it was safer for me.
*******
I always hoped I’d see Kathu again one day. I thought one day we’d run into each other on the streets of Seattle. Five years later, I was working in downtown and saw a woman wearing big thick glasses with a toddler and a man. “Kathy?”
She turned to me with those wide refracted eyes. “I’m Joceile.” She gave me her big toothy grin and a hug. She was married with a baby. I was catching a bus home from work. She scratched her phone number on a small piece of paper and asked me to call.
I carried that phone number for a long time. I didn’t call right away. I didn’t know what to say. I had come out. It was a transitional time of my life. By the time I had the courage, the number was disconnected. I had to settle for having fulfilled the destiny of meeting her again and letting her go. I knew trouble would follow her. I didn’t need to know about it.
Entry II.25 (2026)
I’m still working on the damn eating problem. I notice how suspicious I am of anything going into my mouth. Supplements. “Is there anything odd about this bottle?” First word that comes to me, “Poison?!” Always. It is exhausting and yet, I have to move my thinking. “No one is trying to poison me.”
I’m at “just noticing.” It’s a dog training perspective. We worked with a reactive dog for ten years. Part of the training was to just let them notice what causes them anxiety. How to get close enough to notice but not close enough to cause panic. Being poisoned is still too close to panic.
*******
(1990)
I had been able to feed Adrian in a way I won’t feed myself. Adrian was in the white food phase of early childhood development. Noodles, tofu, potatoes, cottage cheese. These foods worked for me too. I realized I was a simpleton when it came to food. But I would face my fears when it came to feeding Adrian.
*******
The rest of the time, food dogged me like a blood hound. “You have to eat.” “I don’t want to. I don’t have to just yet.” “You don’t want to get sick.” “I’m not dead yet.”
Thoughts swirled around my head: gotta eat, no, no, no. My mind had been poisoned by my young experiences with food. My stomach hurt. My weight was low. I had an instant breakfast in the morning. I took cheese, crackers, and yogurt to work. I made food for Adrian and Rahne when she came home late from work. It still never got easier for me.
My health suffered quietly in unseen ways. Periodically, my stomach hurt so much I quit eating. I never got enough liquids. Feeling worse and worse, I’d end up in urgent care getting IV fluids to restart my system. I’d instantly feel better but feel ashamed for being unable to manage such a basic need as sustenance.
*******
(2026)
It’s even hard to grocery shop. I call it food blindness. I have trouble reading labels. I recognize colors and patterns but no words. Finding things is hell. I read each shelf carefully looking for what I want. Before panic takes hold, I close my eyes and breathe asking logic to take over. “Think, Joceile. Feel it. Where would Ezekiel cereal be?” I know they don’t actually want to hide it from me.
I put things in the same place in the refrigerator. Otherwise, I don’t notice and they disappear from my awareness.
Everything around food is a struggle and it alarms others. For years, my food peculiarities were so loud I refused to participate in potlucks. Now I take my own food so I can socialize. I’ve found friends adapt and welcome me.
Buffets were entirely overwhelming until I figured out I could ask for help. “Could you help me pick out food that an eight year old would like?”
Zeroing down to a common denominator that I and others could understand has helped me a lot. I’m left wondering if I will ever achieve food adulthood.
Entry II.26 (1972)
The summer droned on. It wasn’t a bad life. We had routine which I thrived on. Meals were at the same time each day. Staff shift changes were at 3:30. With no school, there were daily walks around Waughop Lake. Pacific Northwest summer warm, sunny, and beautiful. The fly in the ointment was me. What are we going to do with Joceile?
Without regular exposure to my father and certainly my mother, I’d stopped hurting myself. It was clear I wasn’t safe living with my parents—even to the thick headed professionals. However, other options looked equally dim.
“Joceile, where do you think you’d be placed?” This asked of a fourteen year old mental patient by an ineffective staff member.
“I don’t know.”
“There are group homes.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“If you don’t go back to your parents, you’d become a ward of the state.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means your brother would also become a ward of the state and you’d both be put in foster care.”
“Why?!” My mind was horrified. Now I was not only ruining my life but my brother’s as well. I doubted it was true. I hoped it wasn’t but I couldn’t be sure. More than anything, I wanted to protect my brother. Why did they even say this to me? To try to force me back to one of my parents? I had to think of an alternative. I hated this.
*******
(1990)
I kept bouncing in and out of the wheelchair. I couldn’t walk for three days at a time. Then suddenly, I could feel my legs and walk for two days. It alternated but wasn’t predictable. What was the key?! I was angry. Could being really angry help?
Neurologists were flummoxed. No cause could be identified. I’d go to bed able to walk and wake up unable to move my legs. Renting a wheelchair was expensive. After a year of this, I asked my doctor for a prescription for Goup Health to pay for the wheelchair. A terrible thing happened.
I’d waited a couple weeks to hear anything. I was at home when a man called and told me he was delivering a wheelchair. He arrived with a large package and began unwrapping it. When the plastic was removed, I saw it was a brand new wheelchair.
“You’re tall. I’ll make adjustments for you so it fits you.” He handled the thing like he’d handled a million of them.
He helped me in it. It was black and chrome, thinner and lighter than any wheelchair I’d ever been in. “I’ll lengthen the footrests as long as I can.”
“The brakes work like this… Footrests remove this way and fold up.”
The thing rolled easily. As he was finishing up, I asked, “How long do I have it for?”
“Oh, it’s yours to keep, covered by insurance.”
Oh shit, I thought. It’s mine to keep?!
“Thank you,” I managed to say as he took all the packing materials and left. I told myself people in wheelchairs didn’t need to be gregarious.
I didn’t want to own a wheelchair. I didn’t intend to need one forever. I just wanted the rental covered. What did it mean that Group Health gave me a wheelchair? It couldn’t be good. It was assistance of the kind that gave with one hand and slapped me with the other. I now had a wheelchair permanently but I didn’t want one. Not good, Joceile. Not good at all.
*******
Rahne sat down as we were talking about not walking. “Joceile, I didn’t sign up for this.”
“What does that mean? Neither of us did.”
“It means I have to wrap my mind around being with someone in a wheelchair.”
I stopped listening at that point. “You see, J. She didn’t sign up for this. She’s not going to stay with you. You’re defective. Not good enough. You’re going to be alone.”
“Shut up, Sasifraz. Just shut up.”
“She didn’t sign up for this…” He sang this over and over.
“Just shut up.” But he wouldn’t. It was too good a way to cause me pain.
A day or two later, Rahne said her love for me was a commitment to me, wheelchair or not. I was relieved. But Sasifraz never forgot, always dragging out at inopportune times, “She didn’t sign up for this.”
“Thanks, Sasifraz. I’m not likely to ever forget.”
Entry II.27 (2026)
One Me said to the other Me, “I feel my life so poignantly. Is this normal?”
“Now, that’s a question I don’t have the answer to. It’s just how you are.” Then again, I flashed on an agency director telling me I care too much. “Of course I care, you asshole,” I thought, “and you don’t care enough.”
The first Me said, “Some things we just have to live with.”
“Because it’s in our nature?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
Would I have changed this caring business if I could? Probably not. It would have wrecked that whole passionate thing that pushed me to do what I didn’t want to do.
It was ironic that great love came with great pain and great caring came with great passion. Passion without care was dangerous. That was Sasifraz. That was my father.
*******
(1972)
From time to time after I appeared to be doing well, the staff at Western thought I should spend a weekend with my father to see if I could be okay there. (They were not good with identifying patterns.)
My father came and got me on a Friday. It was uncomfortable as always. My father was on good behavior. That Saturday night, I really wanted physical comfort. I wanted to be held, to be close to someone. Unfortunately, he was the only one available.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?” I was not conscious of the implications.
“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please, I just don’t want to sleep alone.” I wanted a parent’s comfort. That’s all I could think about.
“I don’t think you should.”
“I just don’t want to be alone.”
After more of my pestering, he agreed. Nothing happened between us that night.
When I got back Sunday night, I was uneasy. I was with a staff person I didn’t like. Madsen. She always felt cold to me. But that night, she knew I was troubled and asked me about it.
I hemmed and hawed until finally I said, “Last night, I slept with my father.” I knew how that sounded. I hastened to add, “Nothing happened. We just slept in the same bed. I asked him to let me.”
I don’t know what Madsen said back to me. I just knew I had done something wrong and was having trouble processing it.
Later, my father told me they told him that shouldn’t happen again. I felt guilty. Did I set him up? Oh, probably. As a way to get away from him, it worked. I don’t remember spending another weekend with him.
*******
(2026)
This story about my father still bothered me over half a century later. It was tapping into the fear and the extreme danger of that act. It could have gone wrong in so many ways. I was unconscious and most likely dissociated. I lived through it but at what cost? The nervous system alarm bells still reverberated. How is that possible? The body remembers what the mind tries to forget.