ON FINDING THE FUTURE — In The Broken Chains Of Our Past.

Reflection from December 5th, 2016 @ Age 36




I experienced an interesting averse, emotional reaction just earlier, a little earlier today—which seemed like something I ought’a record, if you know what I mean.  First, though—isn’t this sweet:

PRODIGY FOR MARISSA—Login/MisaV6; Password/XYZ ;0)

It’s a video game, online—an educationally, mathematical video game online that Brycey plays ;0)

And, he loves it!  He and Arianna were over here yesterday, and he was playin’ it on the computer—and Ari and I were accompanying him, but Ari has her own Prodigy account too, so he enlisted Mimi’s (a.k.a. my, well…biological mama’s) assistance in creating an account for me, as well!


Which I thought was super sweet.  I love that boy!


Okay, now—to the annoying part ;oD

The thought I had earlier, was in conjunction with my activities earlier today—in trying to organize my desk/paperwork/budget/to-do lists/etc. etc. (a.k.a. my life).


And, so, I’d landed at that particular time being, on trying to figure out how to estimate my upcoming 2017 medical expenses.  And really, they’re pretty minimal anymore—which’s exactly what I was thinking about, when I found myself writing a post-it note in regard to a new S.A.D. lamp which then bled into a blurb about contacting my former psychologist.

And I was just writing away as I do but of course, you know—and I’d noted perhaps following up with Dr. C in regard to figuring out which company it was, that we’d coordinated with to get my first S.A.D. lamp.  And then, kept going—which was the point wherein I was simultaneously writing, whilst my spirit floated up out of my body and said, “Marissa, what are you doing? Why, would you want to reopen that old wound?”

And, so, that’s goin’ on inside my mind—whilst my brain and arm and hand are goin’ on autopilot.  I don’t even want to get up and get the note I’d written—I was disgusted with myself, just about as soon as I’d finished writing it.  I mean, ugh…

There really wasn’t a whole lot more to the note, even.  Just, the connection there in case I needed old information regarding ordering a new S.A.D. lamp—in the instance Medicare’d even cover any kinda (let alone—that kinda) medical equipment.  And then, after that, let’s see…

Just [1] if Medicaid would cover any Dr. C (i.e. psychology) appointments—for me in 2017, just generally speaking; and [2] if so, wondering if I would want to follow up with Dr. C at long last—in specific regard now, to this pending issue regarding my (biological) father’s inclusion at my Dr. S psychiatrist appointments.  One sec…

I’ll be back, but, one sec…


Okay, so anyway…

Then, linking that thought up, with the original place from which it’d, well, originated—being, well, having been actually my (biological) father’s idea, which he’d mentioned to Dr. S for noapparent” reason during my last psychiatrist appointment with Dr. S back on November 17th, 2016.

Which I then got all irritated about I think it was, a few days later—I think it was on November 19th, 2016 that I’d gotten all upset about it, in the late evening on a Saturday.  And I was crying, and laughing too!

But, notably, laughing in regard to other things—whilst crying in regard to this specific aforementioned thought, in particular.  Or, well…

Who knows.  Maybe I wrote the accompanying journal entry Friday, post-Thursday appointment—and then I was just typing it up and posting it to Jane Says that Saturday night; but in either case, “ON HAVING COURAGE—And Being Kind” was the name—of that post.

And the reason I know the date of the appointment was November 17th is because I emailed Dr. S’s office just a bit earlier, regarding changing my extended-release stimulant to regular-release (so they’re both now—err, then, would be regular-release).  And I wrote that out and sent it off to Dr. S’s office, with the accompanying question—regarding whether said change’d require another Dr. S appointment this month, of December.  All the while, what’s the word?

Cringing, at the thought of accompanying my (biological) father—just the two of us, in his motor vehicle all the way to Easton and back; and then in between there, having to deal with all of his senseless and intrusive questions for Dr. S supposedly regarding me—during my appointment.  Grr…

And how, somehow, it’s become my responsibility to put up with same—not the motor vehicle part per se, but rather, the senseless and intrusive process of my biological father’s line of Dr. S questioning.  The thought that, if I were to tell him I would like to take back my privacy—in my appointments with my psychiatrist, grrr

The thought that my desire for privacy in that sense’d be met with resistance from him—i.e. “him” being my biological father who spiritually left me for dead, a long long time ago, when I was a very little girl, just as my nightmare of a “life” (no.1) began.  And then, too, but of course, that whole mess of a circumstantial situation—taken in combination with S.B.43 and U.S. Representative Timothy Murphy of PA’s loving compassion, for forcing incompetent mental-health “treatment” upon persons with serious mental illness (like me) involuntarily.

So, all that was going on in my mind—once I’d caught myself writing that note on physical auto-pilot.  That note regarding Dr. C, my former psychologist who, when push came to shove—decided she’d discriminate against me, just as she did with all of the others.

At the end, when I, well, reallyafter I’d decided to “go” for it and’d already begun the process, legislatively speaking.  And then, but of course, I lost my job as the (well, one of the ;0) consequences of “coming out of the closet”—in terms of having a serious mental illness myselfpublicly speaking.  And then my psychologist Dr. C got cold feet—I lost my job, had no money, and stopped seeing Dr. C just after she helped me get on social security disability.

Up until that point, we had one session within which my entire immediate family was included—and I remember sitting there, with all of them talking about me as if I were not even with them, sitting right there with all the other bodies in the room.

Mom and Dad and Andy and John and Dr. C and I, all sitting there together to discuss the baby of the family—and somehow the conversation culminated all the way up to the point, where I stopped everyone else from speaking, and explained to them, the following:

I said, something like:

“I don’t care that I don’t have any money—I am an attorney, and that trumps all of you.”

I mean, I have no idea what in the world kinda nonsense was being stated in that room, back in what, probably December 2014—that would’ve led me, half-dead, to pipe up so as to quiet everyone else down, so I could make that statement.

I remember talking to John, sometime a ways out in time past that moment—and listening to him autonomously repeating my own statement back to me, and telling me he’d never thought about it quite like that before I’d said it to them.

Sigh.  See!  And now, here presently—I can hardly even remember where it was from all these memories, that I began!  Lol, as in, what my point here—was going to be.


But in all honesty, it doesn’t even matter—‘cause I feel better already, and I’ll deal with the biological-father-of-darkness-sitting-in-on-my-psychiatrist-appointments when the issue, becomes ripe for further development.

In closing, noting only that it is obviously a very juicy plot-line within the story—for which I am so super grateful, because it is that juiciness precisely, which grants my prose such sweet flavor.


Ohh yeah…


And, now that I’m thinking about it—I do wonder if this dizzying psychological nausea I’ve been experiencing as of late, does have to do with the non-ER (i.e. regular-release) stimulant.

‘Cause, now that I’m thinking about in this very particular psychological light post-1hour and 9-minutes of writing—I do think this is the same side-effect I had back in like January 2016, which caused me to abandon the regular-release in the first instance!


Which means the extended-release, which has been working—but then over time had no longer been working as well, will not do; obviously, this regular-release with its…

What did I call it—way back when?


With its psychological whiplash side-effect, yep, that’s it—will not work, either.  And, I cannot afford Focalin XR, I’m allergic to a filler in somebody’s Ritalin generic (but, whosenobody knows!), ughhl…

And, that’s it!  ‘Cept for this stupid pamphlet which Dr. S gave me at my last appointment—regarding a “free” trial for a new *DRUG* to try, sigh…

Well, I did already write notes out to call my Rx-Insurance/Medicare Part D company to see if they’d cover it, and to what extent—if I did like it.  Sigh

So, I guess I’ll just do that tomorrow—and in the meantime, just let Dr. S’s office respond when they get to it.  And, deal with the issue regarding my biological father as it relates to all of the above—when it comes time, and is ripe and ready for to be dealt.


Well, this is an interesting location in my psyche!  Ohh yeah, and lastly, I wasn’t even expecting any response, at all—in regard to my last TCOB post regarding Grandpa Sabik, NASA and UFOs.


Nothing at all, at least with regard to that portion of the post!  So, what a surprise, it was—to telepathically receive, a nuclear response!

I’m. getting. WARMER.


UPDATE—Friday, January 6th, 2017 @ 10:10pm:

Technically, I don’t turn 36 ’til June 20th, 2017 ;oD

All my love,


25 thoughts on “ON FINDING THE FUTURE — In The Broken Chains Of Our Past.

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