Hello followers, and greetings for the day

I have tried to gather some information and stuff about the subject, into a weekly newspaper. If you are interested in learning more about this subject, please feel welcome to check out this link:

Tussila’s roaring #stigma-fighting fifties!

I don’t know why, but today I’m angry, I’m so angry that in this writing moment, I can’t sit still on my chair, and my back is much straighter than normal, my neck is straighter, my eyes is glancing down on the screen, instead of straight forward at it. All that because I, in this writing moment is taller than normal.

Why this rage, and why now? Is it helpful? is it appropriate? Does this anger point anywhere, and in that case , in what direction does it point?

I will tell you: It points in the direction where the ignorance-believers, the belittling-teams , the professional know-how-experts and the patronizing-lovers live. My anger is an arrow and a sword, which purpose is to strike those communities where it all seems so easy to solve the complex injuries that often follows from childhood traumas. By all means, there are a lot of very competent people out there, trying to help and doing a fantastic job. This goes to those people in various health care units who really isn’t very interested in their patients well-being, and who still claims that they are doing a good job helping.

Most of all, I wish to say, loud and clear, and I will continue repeating as long as necessary: I never allow anybody to call me mentally ill, without me correcting it. What I have is injuries, mostly mental injuries that somebody has inflicted upon me, from the outside. I was perfectly fine when I was born. If I should allow anybody to call me mentally sick, mentally ill, or mentally poorly, I would see myself as weak, because then no causes would be mentioned to explain my condition, and all my courage and strength would disappear.

I therefore, without exceptions, always claim that I have mental injuries. That claim also clearly indicates that there are abusers and wrong-doers in my child history, and that they are responsible for my diagnoses, and not myself. That is my main point. And I guess that my rage mostly comes from the fact that I recently have noticed that terms like “mentally injuries” hardly exists on the web. As far as I can see, the majority still is tagging all mental disorders as “mentally ill”, “mentally sick” and so forth…

And I don’t understand why!

The diagnoses complex post-traumatic stress-disorder clearly has the word trauma in it. I what contexts is it proper to say that the word trauma means ill? As far as I can see, the understanding of the word trauma, is only mixed up when it comes to psychiatry.
Why on earth is that? Can somebody explain what purpose it has, to alter the meaning of diagnostic terms from the somatic health care to the mental health care?

I can not explain it, nor can I understand it.

I’m sorry for this outburst, I hope that I didn’t offend anybody, I just had to get it of my chest!

Knowing myself fairly well, I guess there will be a calmer image posted later today…

At the doctor’s office


Outside the doctor's office

Occasionally, I still have to go through some bad experiences when it comes to meeting the more ignorant representatives of our health service. This time, it was my new physician. Unfortunately, he will never understand. He is too old, and he is much too self-assure to learn about my psychiatric diagnose. We even invited him to a meeting in the spring. The other participants were my former psychology specialist, my psycho-motor therapist, my fiancé, my support person, a local government representative, beside myself. The overall purpose for this meeting was precisely to make my new doctor understand better, what effects complex post-traumatic stress disorder has on me. In addition, how important it is not to push me and nor belittle me, if I try to mark some limits to protect myself. However, some people just aren’t capable to understand, and the best thing to do is to turn the back to such people and walk away. It will be no loss, my life still brings more challenges than I can handle.

In this digital collage, I’ve tried to show how I felt after my last consultation, a few weeks ago. Actually, I must admit that there was no consultation, because I ran out of the waiting room as soon as the physician mentioned appeared. Afterwards, when I had escaped, I experienced another one of my dissociating attacks. It took place in the middle of the stairs outside the doctor’s office, while I was waiting for my support person to come out. My right hand clasped to the handrail and my left leg stood at a lower step than my right leg, as if I was in the middle of climbing the stairs. I kept standing in this position for several minutes. I stood motionless, hardly breathing, stiffly staring at a brick corner in the wall in front of me, while my brain cells were highly active, stirring around in the porridge of feelings mixed up with withheld compulsions.

Some days later, I tried to figure out what people were thinking when they saw me standing stiff and motionless in the stairs. Actually, the first that got into my mind was that I must have looked like a weird human-like gecko. Maybe I resembled one too. Maybe people thought that I just had to stand still for the sun to warm up my body, to move again. I don’t know. Nevertheless, the geckos do it for a reason, and so did I.

Ignorance paired with arrogance sure is an unhealthy combination, especially when it materializes in health care workers. I’m looking forward to change to a younger, female physician!