Cynical

Watching the news concerning the recent events in Jersey saddens me. It makes me wonder too. It is portrayed as something that is uncommon. Unfortunately that is not the case. Abuse in institutions in the UK has been an all too common event. Ok, nowadays there is much more scrutiny. having said that, I am sure it still occurs. In the past deaths, injuries, violence, abuse of authority, they have all been a too common occurrence. Often the powers that be would sooner not know exactly what happens inside the walls of these places. The type of people in these places had no voice to speak for them. They where not in the main stream of society. many had no family. If they died, the attitude was, 'well so what'! It was all too easy to ignore what happened.
Abuse occurs in many forms, from actual physical violence and sexual abuse, to abuse by medication, the liquid cosh. Heavy doses of tranquilizers, sleeping draughts and so forth. Drugs administered on an experimental basis. Electro convulsive therapy, usually administered with an anaesthetic but not always. It has all happened and in recent times too.
For me these things are very real. My own view of this dark side of society has left me with no trust in any form of authority. yes, I am highly cynical and I believe I have a right to be.
In answer to the person who e mailed me. Ok, I respect your request to remain anonymous. Yes, I could go further in to detail, however, I consider that this is not the place to do so. originally I had intended this place to be separate from my outdoor blogging site. Somehow though the two sites run parallel. It is obvious that anyone reading my outdoor blogs may wander in this direction. There are folks out there who know who I am. It would be too awkward and I would be uncomfortable with people knowing my background chapter and verse. Let me just say, I know what I am writing about. Yes, I have there, seen it all, experienced it first hand.
it is a common occurence that quite often staff in these forms of institutions are there because of their own personality disorders. Like attracts like. Studies have shown that people put in a position of authority over others will abuse that authority. It becomes a heady mix, authority equals power. In some cases, given their position of power, there are those who will accept no challenge from anyone, either staff or inmate. Some will relish that. Others, introduced in to a regime of authority and rule will become, over time, hardened to it so that gradually it becomes the norm.

Disquiet

Away over the Easter weekend. Spent the first couple of days walking solo. This is where I am most comfortable. The plan was to meet with a few other outdoor folk at a designated campsite. Due though to bad weather, basically a campsite that was a sea of mud, everyone moved to a bunkhouse. Ok, I coped with this not too badly. On the Saturday night though, something occcured that totally threw me. Without going in to details this was a situation that I would have considered to be in control of. On this occasion though that was not the case. For reasons I am unsure of, old memories came flooding back. There where feelings of guilt, memories of pain, of punishment. it was all there, so vivid, stark. These where things I thought had been dealt with, or at least, come to terms with. The whole thing scared me. If transport had been running on the Sunday I would have left there and then. As it was I just isolated through the day. Fortunately everyone was heading out to go walking. My excuse was that I had the start of a migrain. Emotionally I felt ripped apart. Even now, almost a week later, I am having difficulty understanding why I had such a strong, negative reaction. Possibly I am withdrawing further from society.
Certainly in the main I walk alone through life. Outcast is a handle that suits me well. As I grow older, I ponder at times if I am actually cursed. Yes, I have a certain social level but confidantes, really close friends, that is another story. Death is more often in my thoughts. A shadow of darkness. Pain, anger, these are things I have mentioned before. Why do I survive?

Questions

As I grow older I really question as to why I still exist upon this earth. In many ways I am stuck in a time and place I do not care for. The injustice of the manner in which I lost my job still rankles. The company has a bad reputation in the manner they treat staff. In many ways, residents too. Originally I was with another association, this one took over. At the time many of us thought they would breath new life in to a system that was failing. My first sense of unease was when this company began to shed all our long term residents. It had been a policy that some of our guys where offered a home for life, giving them support and care that they required. With in a short period of time I knew of several who had died. Suicides, drug overdoses and so forth. They simply could not cope in society. Unfortunately money is all, even for an association that is supposedly providing care in the community. As for me, well, I was one of the old originals and as had happened to many others I had to go. Management stood shoulder to shoulder, they openly sneered as I attempted to argue my case. It was a forgone conclusion, descisions had already been made and I was discarded. No back pay, no holiday pay. Almost all my tools lost. If that company went up in flames I would stand on the side lines and cheer. I gave them them my all but now once more I am back to my original outcast being and growing older, bitter, angry.

social outcast.

There is a theme running through my head in regard to being a social outcast. Obviously there are some who deliberately choose to go down that road. There are those who, through circumstances in life become that way. Some, and here I would say, a minority; have been alienated, in one way or another, from the mainstream of society. In my own circumstances, as far back as I remember, this has always been the case. From very early home life I can distinctly remember not belonging. Institutional life started early. Again, the same pattern of events, being on the outside, looking in. Never belonging to the mainstream group of kids. It is a repetative pattern that has constantly dogged me. Right through my teens my attemps to belong, to be one of the gang, led me in to many scrapes. Often it meant being the butt of others people fun. That constant theme has led at times to extremes of behaviour. It has caused me much trouble, mental health problems and so forth. As I have grown older, so I have gradually pieced together a few answers. The aspurges syndrome, although probably in mild form, the gender issue; that did cause major issues. In all probablity there will be no light shining at the end of the tunnel. Today, I manage, to a certain degree. In many respects because I have become a better actor. Usually though I remain uncomfortable around people. yes, I can manage the everyday social pleasantaries, thereabouts. Still though I over compensate. Recently, invited to visit someone for a weekend; it somehow seemed crucial to buy presents, to leave cash. It is scary too, staying in someones home. What is home? For me, personally, home means only the place I am currently based at before moving on elswhere. Often I feel a degree of uncertaintity, at time bordering on panicky unsureness. Questions remain, I am getting older, obviously relationships are no go. In the cold light of day, I hope that when I start finding that I can no longer do the things I am doing now; when strength and ability are on the down hill run, then I hope for a swift end. Blunt but practical.

Anger

The last few months have been chaotic. In July I was suspended after an altercation with a manager. Things snowballed, without going into all the gory details, things got traumatic. Severe allagations where made against me. The police where involved, I was arrested, banged up in the cells, fingerprinted, dna tested and so forth. Fortunately the crown prosecution service saw sense and threw the whole sorry mess out. There was a disciplinary hearing. My evidence,my whole defense was largely ignored or brushed aside. The fact that years back I was diagnosed with a mild form of aspurges syndrom, re, have difficulty in handling stress related incidents, find forming relationships extremely difficult which in turn means I have little choice but to remain largely a loner. Thus in relation to work I am not a 'team player'? All this was dragged up. Subsequently I was thrown out of my job. Yes, I appealed, that was grim. The senior manager who took the first hearing, sat right through the hearing, her disaproval of me was writ large. Her gloating look at the end was sickening.
Maybe it sounds like sour grapes but it was so evident that management just closed ranks. It was looked upon that I had challenged management and that was not permitted.
The knock on affects just keep on reverbarating. It is not the losing of my job that makes me angry. it is in the manor in which it was done. That was my first job in many years. I worked damned hard to make a go of things, to fit in to a society where largely I feel alienated. That in many respects is destroyed. Once more I am retreating from people, from a society which I do not understand. Once again I am wary, bitter, angry.
One thing I have discovered over the years is that there always a few people who become societies rejects. outcasts, they do not belong. Because they are, for many reasons, different. Society, ie the greater mass of people, view and treat them with suspicion. Sometimes ridicule them, or even persecute such individuals. Studying social history, it is evident that this has always been the case. In this country people where flogged, burned, drowned, tortured. Over time society became more humane. Often outcasts where simply locked up in lunatic asylums. Several years ago I had the opportunity to visit a small museum. Much of what was on view came from the old Bedlam in south London. At one time in Waterloo and then what is know the imperial war museum. The old staff uniforms, wooden staves to keep control of the inmates. Straight jackecomplete with ts and shackles. Among the exhibits where two square boxes maybe a foot or so in diameter and around three foot high. Each bore a brass plaque with the words, 'spare a thought for the poor lunatic'. This was due to the fact that rich Victorians used to visit the asylum for a Sunday afternoons entertainment. If the warders could persuade! a few inmates to 'perform', so much the better. It meant a bit of extra cash for in the warders pocket.
Hitler offered a solution by gassing any German with a mental health problem. Oh he dressed it up in all sorts of flowery speech but many psychiatric hospitals in Germany in the late 1930's had their inmates shipped off, never to be seen again.
Has society changed that much? To be honest I am not so sure. Yes, there is more understanding and tolerance. However, there is still a lot of misconceptions and deep rooted suspicions. From my side of things I must be honest, I am bitter. Having seen some of the worst mal practices of the mental health system. Cynical too. At times I question my very being, why do I bother? Often I feel at a loss, tip toeing around the edge of society but never really belonging. It is a different vocabulary. People talk of love, of affection. Sorry, what is love? That is an alian word. People hold hands, cuddle, make love, have relationships. That is not my world. Certainly I have worked hard on those areas. The physical, emotional and mental scars veriify that. The fact remains though, it is cold out here in the wilderness. People scare me. The word outcast springs to mind, one who is cast out or rejected by society. Well, maybe, maybe not. In all probality, it is case of never having belonged to the greater whole that makes up the mass we term as society. What is scary is that I am getting older. Lonliness bites deeper. The nearest I get to bridging the gap is in my hill walking activities. Even here though more often than not I walk solo. A few years back I was in one of the remoter parts of Scotland and found parts of a tent, a trecking pole and a few other bits. Reporting when I came out, I was informed that someone had vanished in that region a couple of years previously and had never been found. Sobering, it crosses my mind often. That could be me. If something happened who would know? Very few, who would care? A small minority.

surgery over

Well, it is a while since I last posted on here. Due to computer troubles etc, I have been somewhat adrift.
While in hospital for the latest op I did scribble a few notes though.
Early in September the letter came through to notify me of the admission date for surgery. It was an early start to the day. I had to be on the plastic surgery admission ward to 0730am. Fortunately it was not crowded. To be honest though I was nervous. There is that common denominator of having to undress and put on the ubiquitous hospital gown. Deep joy though, the hospital provided gowns that fastened on the side, thus preserving dignity. Small details but they make a world of difference. Seeing the surgeon my trepidation grew. This was not going to be such a simple op as first thought. Many women have a boob job and think little of it. This was more complex. Basically, breast reconstruction. The surgeon had to incise old scar tissue and reopen old wounds. Also, he had to go below the chest muscles. The surgeon explained what it would mean, drainage tubes, more pain, longer healing. He was honest but gentle in his explantions,for which I was grateful. Once I had seen the clinical team, been marked up by felt tipped pen, came the long wait. I tried to read but could not concentrate. Not having had anything to eat or drink since the previous night, as per pre op instructions, my mouth was dry and I craved a cuppa. Finally, not long after 11 am, a theatre nurse came to collect me. I was surprised to be actually walked down to theatre. Odd, walking down hospital corridors and being in a lift naked except for a hospital gown and felt slippers. Led into the prep room, I am instructed to lie down on a trolley. A quick check by the anasthetic team and then another short walk actually in to theatre. Something I have never experienced before. I try and remain calm but suddenly reality bites, this is scary. Lying down on another trolley. People bustling around me. my gown is drawn down to my waist. There is little room for dignity in theatre. Sensors arestuck to my chest and back. There is almost a sense of panic, fear. My breathing is arratic. Overhead an array of surgical lights. I hear more people arriving. Out of my periphial vision I can see people, anonymous, shapless, dressed alike in blue hospital scrubs. A low murmur of voices. The clink of metal on metal makes me cringe. The anethatist looms over me, he wants me to gargle a local anathetic and then swallow it. Yuch, it is foul. I fail to gargle enough and have to endure a second dose, almost gagging on the awful taste. My throat goes so dry, sort of numb. My anxiety goes up a few more notches. Someone takes my hand, raising the vein. They talk soothingly as I automatically flinch when a canular needle is inserted. Then blackness, nothing.
As if from a great depth, I surface slowly, I can hear someone moaning. Dimly I am aware that it is me. Pain, pain, pain, hurting. I can hear myself mumbling, not aware of what I am saying. later I am told I was I was talking about my ice axe, it sems I thought I had had an accident with it???????????????? Blurred figures talking to me, as from a great distance. Slowly I become a little more aware of my suroundings. Someone explains they are administering more morphine to control the pain. Eventually it is decided I am recovered enough to be taken to the ward. I am giving a trigger device that controls my morphine input. it is pre set so that I am only allowed a limited dosage. The night is passed in a foggy nether world. The following morning I am given a blanket bath and allowed to rest. There are the constant two hour checks through the day. Slowly the pain settles down. The surgeon and his team do their rounds and he offers reassurance that the op went well. A couple of days later and I find that the dressings are actually hurting. it appears there was a reaction to the dressings. As they are peeled off, skin is removed too. large blisters have formed, some septic. Antibiotics are prescribed, along with all the other meds I am recieving. An infection in the actual wound causes concern slowly though, it begins to clear up. It was to come back several times over the next few weeks and after my discharge I had to change my own dressing and clean down. Drainage tubes where left in for twelve days and overall I was in hospital for 14 days. stitches where removed after three weeks. Support bras had to be worn 24/7 for three months and at times proved very uncomfortable. Things are still sore, recovery is slow. Regrets though, no, my only regret is that I was ever bulldozed in to ever having breast reduction. On that point I am bitter. All this could have been avoided.

many years on

Finally I am due for breast surgery. This is such a muddled area. So many bad memories, so much confusion. Many years back it was recognised I was gender disphoric. However, the prevailing view was, 'society has decreed, thus there is nothing that can be done. That was a very turbulent time in my life and in many respects my life was not my own. Due to so called profesional people's ideas I actually had breast development. However, I was shunted in to a partial breast reduction. Pshycologically that was traumatic, very. Physically it was painful, not helped by the fact that I had an infection with it. Even now I am still tender in those areas. Another down side was the amount of scar tissue involved.
It is odd really, after all that, that even now I still want to go through breast reconstruction. Maybe so, but I feel driven. there is a compelling urge to have this done. How can I be half a woman? It is there in my mind. Like a nagging toothache. Going through life wearing prosthetics is not what I want. In some respects I am torn down the middle. The surgeon has already warned me, this is going to mean pain. He may have to cut through old scar tissue. Due to the fact that I am no longer as young as I was, healing is going to take that much longer. Oddly maybe, but one thing does through my mind, how well am I going to manage earing a rucksack again? From what I can find out, in all probability it will hurt for a while.