Thursday, 22 November 2018

Hospital idiocy...

So I thought I knew what was going on with me spiritually at this point, now I'm not so sure, still trying to figure things out.  It got ever so slightly weird with my channeling at work on Monday, so out of fear and caution, I finished my shift, collected my things, went home and packed, and took a cab to CAMH.

The ER was an absolute zoo, at least two other patients had been hauled in by the cops, the rest  came in seemingly on their own, or with family.  There were no available beds, so once I got formed, I had to sleep on a gurney in the hall.  Then I was transferred to an EU bed until a ward bed became available.  Basically I spent the whole time drugged up so that I was asleep all the time, and the food was so bad I could barely eat anything but cheese sandwiches and fruit cups.  When I finally got a bed on the women's ward, I had already figured out that nothing good was going to come of this stay, that it was an unnecessary venture and that I had jumped the gun in going to a hospital.  But I had to wait to talk to a shrink to get the form voided, so that took more waiting.  (Oh yeah - my first sign this was not going to be a good stay was when an ER doctor brought up electroconvulsive therapy, or ECT, as a viable treatment option for me - NOOOOO!  My memory already sucks!)

When I finally did see the ward doctor, and ended up having to bring up channeling as a part of my experiences, he made some smart ass quip about having read "Harry Potter" (which I found incredibly insulting - does he mock First Nations women for their ceremonial practises, too?).  The remainder of the questions I mostly answered with "I'd rather not talk about that", until he agreed to end the form.

To add insult to injury, the hospital LOST the medications I brought in with me, and had the audacity to deny having done so.  I raised my voice and demanded that they fix the problem until they wrote a new prescription, that I thankfully did not have to pay for.  What an utter waste of my time.  I will only ever go to a psych ER again if I am convinced I am suicidal.  That's it.  This was bullshit!

I am disappointed a bit by the women's ward this time - last time it wasn't so bad.  They were pretty swamped to be sure, but the incompetence with the meds was inexcusable.  I am so done with all of this crap, but really, in this heartless shithole of a city, there aren't many options for poor people like me.  Toronto is motherfucking Terry Gilliam's 'Brazil' to me, when it comes to bureaucratic protocol.  So glad I can at least afford my top notch Jungian for therapy - many wouldn't even be able to swing that.  (My therapist was the kind, helpful voice of reason over the phone throughout all of this - what a great man.)

Bell Let's Talk?  Nay... Bell, Let's Burn CAMH To The Ground and Start Over!


EDIT:  I am doing well again... back to being on track.  I had a great session with my Jungian, this was just some weirdness through channeling I received and I got concerned and assumed things were going to get rough again, but they didn't.  I think this is just transformative shit at play.  I'm praying that the dimethyltryptamine that is likely active in my brain increase in flow... we'll see what that leads to, perhaps it's a neurological, developmental shortcut, rather than just focusing on chakras 'n shit?  I'm kinda seeing some fractal-esque stuff on and off in my mind now so maybe it's moving things along.  I will likely discuss this further in the future.  (I have never taken ayahuasca or anything like that, but DMT runs naturally in the brain anyway.  It's triggered during an awakening, but also during near death experiences, and when the body begins to die.  I know enough about it from my kundalini studies, but not much from a biochemical standpoint.)

Thursday, 15 November 2018

CTOs (and the pricks who administer them)...

(This post is going into Mad Pride territory again... not sure if I wrote about this on my last blog or not, so if I'm being redundant, sorry... this subject is important to me.)

There's something so incredibly infuriating about the level of power psychiatrists are granted to really cause conflict in people's lives, all in the name of treatment.  Most people who see a psychiatrist will never see this level of oppression, if it's for something like depression, anxiety, or even a milder form of bipolar disorder.  However, if things go beyond a certain point and one is deep enough in the system as I was, the uglier side of this branch of medicine can emerge, depending on who is treating you.

I was under what is known as a Community Treatment Order for a time (or a CTO, for short).  This is when medicine is given carte blanche to strip you of your bodily rights, allowing enforced treatment outside of hospital, in the form of an injection every two weeks, administered by a psychiatrist and a nurse who come to your door to administer it.  If you are not home when they arrive for each appointment, the police are called and you are hauled into hospital in handcuffs to get the injection.

My CTO came about because (god rest his soul) my father was manipulated by a psychiatrist into signing my life away because they were afraid I was going to do something harmful (not because I actually had).  To add insult to injury, a nurse advised me, in my fragile state, that although I could fight it, I shouldn't, because I would lose - nice advice, bitch.  For the next six months, I had to endure the watchful eye of a shirty, nasty prick of a man as my doctor, and an accompanying nurse, coming to my door, yanking down my pants, and shoving a needle in my ass, proceeded with a series of tedious questions while I would sit on my deck outside and haul away on a cigarette, hating life.  There was nothing therapeutic about this procedure, it was a chemical strait-jacket that flattened out my personality, and made me want to do little more than sit, smoke, and cry in my room.  Also, it had the effect of eliminating any self worth and feelings of independence I might have once had, and instilled in me a sense of distrust of psychiatry's ability to help me in any manner, so that when that thing expired, I did not seek any kind of follow up treatment, and went into withdrawal.  The withdrawal then meant that I did in fact cross legal lines, and eventually became the kind of patient they deemed I would be without the CTO in the first place.  I guarantee, a gentler approach instead of the CTO would have meant no crime, no problems for anyone, but I was afraid and so I did not seek out help from them.  They really fucked up with me.

Perhaps it's because I was not a victim of police brutality that I feel this way (sure, there were handcuffs involved, but in general, apart from an AIDS joke about my fragile 98 lb frame, the standard strip/cavity search at the precinct, and having to sleep overnight in a women's penitentiary while I waited for a hospital bed, the officers were lambs) but I am more enraged by the power that a psychiatrist has in ridding one of their rights at the stroke of a pen than I am about a cop going rough with me.  Blacken my eyes, break my bones... at least then I know where I stand with you, a pig is a pig, and most people hate cops and would call that abusive.  But that bougie, white collar way of signing my life away on a piece of paper and convincing my entire family it's for my own good is a whole other level of systematic evil.  It is not as insulting to be physically beaten as it is to be written off.  I know it does not come from a place of true compassion when a doctor does this - it's to cover their ass and prevent getting sued.  I have heard of so many people getting screwed by psychiatrists with these CTO things, others have lost their driver's licenses simply for going to an ER for help, willingly, even if their illness is unrelated to impaired driving.  It's fucking horrible.

The CTO failed me, it was the worst approach possible.  Perhaps in absolute worst case scenarios they may be necessary, but these things are given out all the time for all sorts of silly reasons, and they cause more problems than they're worth.  Fuck CTOs, and fuck what my CTO did to my life.


Wednesday, 14 November 2018

"The Host of Seraphim" by Dead Can Dance...

Just a truly beautiful song that reminds me of my Dad when I play it.  He did not know this band, but I got the sense he'd like this song (we had similar tastes in certain types of music - mostly sorrowful stuff) so I played it for him in recent years, and he fell in love with it.  I played it again for him during his Bardo, when he was visiting.


Sunday, 11 November 2018

Oh yeah... the Hallowe'en pics...

Forgot to add the pics of me in my latex habit from Hallowe'en - not that you don't know the costume well enough already, since it's all over this blog!  (One of these is also now being used as my profile pic):



I actually ordered a second nun habit - a polyester/cotton one from Bodyline Japan, which I will call my "3 vow habit" - the latex one is my "2 vow habit".  I like to wear this garb to show my devotion and love to God in a way that suits my character... I may not be a real nun, but I probably would have been one in another time, in another country, because of the amount of time I spend thinking of Him.  I'm too much of a modern woman and an independent thinker to be one in this era.

UPDATE:  Added a rather intense pic of me I snapped on my computer cam before going out for the tarot group... enjoy, sinners!

SECOND UPDATE: Some more pics!  These were taken at a monthly fetish party a while ago, actually.  The lovely lady with me is a friend of mine.  The photographer's website can be seen at


Saturday, 10 November 2018

My religious bling!

Thought I'd share some images of the stuff I have a tendency to wear around my neck, most days:

This is a St Benedict medal crucifix, Benedictine crucifix, or, as I started calling it, my "Benny Crux".  I had another one, which I had blessed and wore, but I gave it to a friend once I got this one, which was gifted from my lovely step dad (it was his mother's).  This kind of crucifix is said to be the most powerful of them all when it comes to warding off evil forces.  So, knowing what I was battling spiritually, once I got this, I wore it almost constantly.  Now that I feel I am free, I still wear it, but more as a comfort thing, and as a statement of devotion.

(This pic is kind of messed up, because three of the items are on one loop so I could not adjust them to  all be upright.)  Here we have another crucifix, which I wore as "backup" protection, a Santeria-based Sacred Heart charm, which I bought because of Sacred Heart imagery I would channel in the form of drawings of a heart with a cross in it.  Also, a Star of David with an eye in it, which I wore for protection and get the sense was a powerful aid, and the Om, for my more Hindu-centric spiritual devotion.  (I would say that although I mostly have a Christian-esque way of going about my practice, my ideas and many of the sources I pray to are more Hindu.)

My Catholic "dog tags"!  The St Jude medal was the first one I bought, which was right before I was able to invoke Christ through this saint.  When I bought it, I put it around my neck and immediately heard the voice of a child whisper "St Jude" into my ear... within a day, the Christ was invoked.  Also, we have the Virgin Mary, whom I see as a powerful aid and guide (and a great source to pray to for self love, among other things), a cross from Sedona's Chapel of the Holy Cross, a St Gabriel medal, and a St Michael.

I have other pieces of religious jewelry but these are the main items I wear.  Those that I don't usually wear tend to find a place on my shrine.


Friday, 9 November 2018

Hallowe'en 2018 Karaoke Fun...

This might have been better suited for my Mad Pride themed blog, but oh well - a friend shot this video of me at karaoke on the Monday before the 31st of October.  I wore my strait-jacket (sleeves loose to grasp the mic!) and took a shot at "Institutionalized" by Suicidal Tendencies.  I guess you could say this is dedicated to all the foul, oppressive psychiatrists and nasty nurses who deemed me a slow, broken individual - I actually outclock the fast parts of the song here!  The video starts out shot from behind but my friend eventually moves around to the side for a better angle. 

I love karaoke!  <3


Sunday, 4 November 2018

PWR 2018...


 They censored the boobs on the goddesses!  :0

 More deities!
Langar time!

So... I had a blast at Parliament of World Religions 2018 today!  My generous friend fronted my entrance fee, which was pretty steep, to get me in there.  Sadly, I only really took pics of the Hindu Nithyananda setup, and also this selfie of me sporting a Langar headscarf for lunch at the convention.  It's a shame I could only go this one day, as there was so much to see and do and I barely got to do much of it.  I got an Akashic reading from a sadhvi, did my own readings for a couple people in the sacred feminine space that was the "Red Tent", went to some panels, did a puja ceremony, bought a United Church Medicine Wheel/Celtic cross necklace, and generally just explored the premises.  Afterwards, my friend and I went to dinner at a nearby pub with my other friend the United Church minister and his husband for a nice conversation.  All in all, it was a swell time, and had I the money, I would have bought a pass for the entire length of the convention.  It's nice the convention made it to Toronto this year.  This sure beat the pants off of the annual Yoga conference!


Friday, 2 November 2018

I, Fag Hag...

I have always been a fag hag (or "fruit fly", if you like the more cryptic, politically correct version)... of this I am certain.  My dream car as a preteen was a vintage yellow Mazda Miata... my favourite band, the Pet Shop Boys (they still are).  (Actually, I spent most of my teen years at the "wrong" end of the 90s spectrum of music - it was all about eurodance, some britpop... a bit of alternative, but mostly I wanted a catchy bassline and some synthy melodic formula with banal lyrics to dance to... it was only long after the 90s were over that I discovered I actually did appreciate a lot of what grunge had to offer.)  In my locker in high school, I had pictures of David Hyde Pierce up, as well as European fencing champions (they have nice asses), instead of Brad Pitt or some other boring straight guy.  Most of my crushes have been gay men, or at least men who seemed gay, or were countercultural in some way, or quirky or cultured or unique or somehow different.  In fact I have been so obsessed with gay men I was convinced I WAS a gay man in a straight woman's body, had a resulting genderqueer phase, but grew out of it as I embraced being a woman, but a very, very lonely woman who finds the "available" men who might actually consider me attractive to be unbelievably boring.  Also, straight guys have a tendency to treat me like a used condom - once they are done using me in some way, or if they can't get any use out of me at all, I am disposed of immediately.

Don't get me wrong - straight men have made fantastic friends.  Some of my finest pals have been hetero guys... as long as it stays platonic.  They are very good at helping put together IKEA furniture, moving couches, they make great drinking buddies, they give me a run for my money in a belching competition, and they even have a sweet side, often enough.  There's also nothing more riveting to behold than a straight guy singing his heart out to an Erasure song at karaoke... gay guys give an honest, sincere performance, but straights are just hilarious about it.

But many straight men who are looking for love, far too often enough, want a woman who, let's face it... isn't quite as SMART as they are.  I have noticed gay men often love the company of big, bold, funny, intelligent women... that's kind of how I am, personally.  I have come to the realization that if I ever am attracted to another man again, it will likely only be to a gay man.  I just don't trust het males at all now.  Also, being asexual, there's no pressure for sex from a gay man... even a bisexual might crave it from me, a gay man likely wouldn't, and I would have no problem with him going off to fool around with a boy toy on the side.  I would make a proud, happy Beard.

I jokingly refer to myself as "God's Fag Hag" on here because of some wild visions I had one time while smoking a joint.  I immediately saw a limp wristed Hand of God extend from a set of clouds, followed by a sassy lisp, commanding a rather flamboyant version of the Pope at the time (it was Ratzinger) to come out of the closet.  It was among the funniest visions I have ever had, so I put on some Pet Shop Boys remixes and watched the Pope figure dance to it.  No wonder I got so hooked on weed for a while!  *_*

It is my hope that, if I become a top notch professional tarot card lady, it will be the kind of camp, novelty schtick that would attract a gay male audience, and I might actually find a nice lad to laugh with over the absurdity of life.



Thought I'd do a quick little post on the topic of smudging, something I practised ever since a First Nations family friend recommended I engage in it regularly, throughout my struggles.

The subject of cultural appropriation is a big deal on the web these days - some of it I agree with, some of it I think is going a bit far, and is stifling the "rules" about what creative types are allowed to engage in when expressing themselves, as an example.  Anyway, it's interesting to note that the only people who have ever given me a hard time for using smudge plants were non-First Nations, usually whites... First Nations people themselves all seemed to encourage it.  So shut up, whitey... apparently, we're all supposed to do this if there's a need for it!

The first plant I experimented with was the standard - white sage, burned in an abalone shell gifted to me.  White sage is a powerful clearing agent, but also good for cleansing the energy field, kind of like a spirit bath.  I burned a lot of this, and though the spirit within would writhe when I did so, it would never leave.

I also "smudged" a lot with dragon's blood (I say this in quotations because it's a resin, not plant leaves, so I had to burn it on a charcoal), which also seemed to cause the spirit discomfort - imagine Linda Blair writhing in The Exorcist when the priest splashes holy water on her... that kind of reaction.  Also tried were cedar, palo santo, and on and off I played with sweetgrass.

It was only this year that I experimented with a smudge mixture I concocted I liked to call "Die, Devil, Die" (though perhaps "Devil, Get Out" would have been better, considering it was probably better suited to driving evil out, rather than destroying it) - the mixture combined white sage, cedar, palo santo chips, and dragon's blood (and eventually copal added as well), which I ground together with a mortar and pestle, and burned over a charcoal, wafting it all over me with a decorated stray hawk feather I, oddly enough, found on the streets of Toronto.  Though this seemed to really torment the spirit, as it would scream through me, and cause my body to convulse and writhe in reaction to it, it didn't ultimately get rid of the problem.

I remembered I had a braid of sweetgrass, a plant I hadn't used much for smudge.  Sweetgrass is known more for letting positive influences in, rather than driving negative influences out.  So I prayed to invoke as much aid as possible, and smudged with that several times - suddenly, those bliss states I had described in previous posts came over me, through anahata chakra, and it seemed as though change was imminent.  Before bed, there was that glorious Eye of Providence vision that had me cry out "oh my GOD" because of its intensity... I suppose that was a signifier that things were now going to finally get better.  I needed to let good spirits into me, to destroy the bad.

It still feels like it's gone... there is a mild anxiety to me, because of how long I have been fighting this, but so far, so good.  The real test will be coming down off of medication, but I don't want to start doing that until I am at a slightly higher developmental level, so I am less within the mind over this.