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From the full version of Sunnyside's Lousy Book

On second thought,
I better cover all angles.

One thing I overlooked when considering the nut case strategy was that the word on the street about me was, "He's a manic depressant." and it was too often connected to "suicidal". The rumors had such a strong impact on what the people were saying around town, it began to make me wonder if the campaign of manic depressant rumors was one of their strategies for setting me up for a death by suicide plot. As a result, I had a escalating fear that they might try to kill me and make it look as if I committed suicide. I was sure they could close the investigation on the spot and the public would never have known the truth.
      As a strategy to eradicate the possibility of it happening, the thought of getting me put on medication came to mind. I figured that if I was on anti-depressants, they would have a harder time saying I had committed suicide if they were out to kill me in such a fashion.
      The judge in Superior Court sentenced me to a year of probation with a monthly urinalysis screening program which meant I couldn't use pot to keep myself calmed down anymore. I was experiencing anxiety brought on by the withdrawals from my past use of marijuana and without pot I couldn't handle stress as well as I did when I was able to smoke pot. Dean, a close friend as well as one of my best customers who had known me for many years must have understood what I was going through because they both said that I might have killed myself if I hadn't been smoking pot while all the strange things were happening to me.
      Sleeping pills weren't helping me very much and I wondered if some medication would help me with the stress and anxieties. Thinking doctors may know best, I began to debate whether I should see a psychiatrist about getting some medication to help relieve the anxieties I was experiencing. Although I didn't like the idea of being dependent on drugs, I felt I should try some to see if I’d notice any improvement in my ability to stabilize my moods. I looked at the strategy of getting medication as a way to kill two birds with one stone you might say.
      Looking back on the idea now seems a little silly but I figured even if it turned out that I didn't like the medication, the thought of covering the suicidal rumor aspect didn't seem so silly to me at the time, because the threat of being killed was real and there was nothing else I could do about it.
      I made an appointment with a psychiatrist and the first visit cost me $ 125. To make things a little easier, I supplied him with the psychological evaluation done by the psychologist I'd seen earlier. I didn't want to get into talking about my truck or the conspiracy so I withheld the part about my truck. The doctor seemed troubled by the fact that I wouldn't let him see all of the report. Looking back on it, I only wish I didn't supply him with any part of the report at all, because unfortunately the shrink believed in the same type of drugs as the psychologist did and I should've left it up to him as to which drugs I needed; if any at all. But then I have to remember, I truly didn't think I had a mental problem and I wasn't truly serious about taking the medication anyway.
      The shrink prescribed two drugs. One was lithium, which is often prescribed to treat Bye Polar Disorder and the other was Risperdal, a drug often used to treat schizophrenia. He said the lithium would help stabilize my moods and the Risperdal would help me think. He instructed me to take the drugs for two to three weeks and then have a blood test done to determine the level of lithium in my blood before the next appointment.
      Well as you might guess; I didn't like the idea of having any level of lithium in my system what so ever and took less than half of the amount he prescribed to me, if that. By the time I was suppose to take a blood test, I knew I wouldn't have had enough in my system to show up very well, so I called the psychiatrist and told him I hadn't taken the medication as diligently as I was supposed to, and needed to take the blood test at a later time. Without the costly office appointment, he gave me another prescription over the phone and I was set for another month. The next time, just for a few days before the test, I pumped up the dosage to the amount he wanted. It resulted in two undesirable side effects; one was lack of emotions, and there was sticky shit coming out of my ass.
      The psychiatrist himself was one heck of a whacko. The furniture in his office was quite unordinary. It was outfitted with some black abstract designed chairs. They were constructed with laminated plywood backs which were strait cut and had curvature for the shape of a person's back and down around the buttock for the seat. The backs were only about a foot wide and the outer edges went straight up to sharp squared off corners at the top. Although the one he had for himself had arm rest, I couldn't see how anyone could feel comfortable or feel at ease sitting in them. For me, just being in a small office with the strange chairs gave me the creeps.
      The next visit had $60 price tag and our conversation consisted of the weather and whether I was working or not. Looking into his private office, (next to the small meeting room with the strange chairs) I saw nothing that could resemble what I thought a psychiatrist would have on his desk. What I did see was the current issue of the National Enquire magazine.

Before the next visit, I had to sit in the waiting room for awhile. There I saw a young girl who must have been about 13 to 15 years old. She was with a lady who appeared to be her mother. Once the psychiatrist had them in the room with the black chairs I could hear the lady telling the girl she needed to take the medication. The young girl was insisting she didn't want to. I felt that the mother was falling for the doctor knows best theory and the shrink was pushing her buttons making her think he knew how to help her daughter.
      I felt sorry for the girl, because I knew just how the medication was affecting her. If she was on lithium, I'd bet she needed handy wipes to wipe the soft sticky shit off her ass. The medication would also be taking her emotions away. Being on such drugs, a person doesn't get to feel the happiness or the sadness we are all suppose to experience. Such medications only make the patients exist in the world and they don't experience the emotions of what life is all about. This planet we call Earth isn't Heaven but like Stupid Rule Number 70: Its no Holiday Picnic and I don't think it is suppose to be.

What got me is this whacked out shrink I was seeing wasn't even trying to get to the root of my problems. He didn't have any curiosity about what was on my mind causing the anxieties and stress. He just assumed that there wasn't anything to be concerned about as long I was on the medication. After the third appointment I noticed the shrink raised the cost of my visit up more than one way. Not only did he double the dosage of the prescription, but he also raised his fee for the disgusting ten minute visits by $20.
      Basically in my opinion, there must be many whacked out doctors out there that don't care if they just turn a patient into a zombie or not. All they care about was that the patients come back the next month to pay them to write down another prescription on their little pad.
      I couldn't afford the escapade any longer because it turned into a $180 per month fiasco. I was only using half of one day's dose every two or three days; that is if I even remembered to take any at all. To be honest, most of it was going into the toilet.
      I came across a solution: Since my parents are snow birds; my mother came up the idea of buying the drugs in Mexico and mailing them to me. They'd walk across the border and tell a doctor at a pharmacy which drugs they wanted. Then the doctor would write out a prescription which would not only enabled them to buy the drugs, but also allow them to carry the drugs back across the border.
      My parents could buy a month’s supply in Mexico for about twenty dollars, but the problem was that they were coming back for the summer. So the solution was to send them a couple hundred dollars and they could send me a year’s supply for about the cost of paying the game for one month in the US. Since my phone was bugged, all the conspirators would know about the stash and I felt I was covered for over a year because I was sure they'd think I was on medication without having to pay a shrink.

The funny thing about it is how much my parents are against marijuana. They've told me it dose irreversible damage to the brain. (They saw it on a television show). But they see nothing wrong with smuggling drugs (of which I consider far worse than marijuana) over the border for their own son. I guess it's the doctor knows best syndrome and if a doctor hands it out, it isn't a drug -- its medication.

By the way, about the most powerful drug I've ever taken was one my mother gave me when I was ill. It was a little red pill. Gee, I was tripping in my sleep. I was dreaming in cartoons.

More rehabilitating than the medication was the community service the judge in Superior Court sentenced me to. Of course it is the maxim amount of time they can give without putting someone in jail but it was better than jail time because it allowed me to make a living and retain ownership of my possessions. The best thing about working there was that it gave me something to do other than sit in my cage during the rainy season. When I didn't have any painting work for myself, I worked the community service at the hatchery like a second job. At the hatchery, you really had to work for community service and you might understand why only one other guy out of several needing to perform community service made it back for a second day. Working at the fish hatchery helped relieve stress by being able to interact with other people who treated me like an ordinary person. And doing ordinary things each day took my mind off my problems for awhile each day helped relives stress also.

When I met the other guys who came to the hatchery to work off their community service, I'd compare the severity of the crimes in contrast with the sentence penalty handed out. It was obvious that the amount of hours I was sentenced to perform was grossly unfair.
      I knew the probation officer had informed the folks at the fish hatchery about the bye polar disorder illness bit and I even mentioned it to them myself because I felt if I was open about it, there would be less talking about it behind my back. I don't think they fell for the put-on though. Because looking back on the whole escapade, I can safely say that they were some of the very few people who always treated me like a normal person even though they were told different.
      While working at the hatchery, I was afraid to mention the fire, or the conspiracy that followed, or anything about my truck. That wasn't until the foreman who ran the place found out how crooked the local governments can be.
      What happened was some cops who worked for the city of Puyallup thought it would be neat to go to the shooting range up on the hill behind the fish hatchery and set-off a canister of tear gas. Well the gas drifted down to the house that was provided for the keepers of the hatchery. The foreman's wife suffered serious breathing problems and because of it, she ended up in the hospital. The local governmental agencies came onto the hatchery's facilities and turned the place over looking for the source of the problem.
      The agencies made the hatchery remove empty plastic hydrogen peroxide barrels they had set upside down around the fish ponds to hold the bird netting away from the edge of the pond providing room to walk around the pond when feeding. To say the least, they flat out harassed the folks at the hatchery.

I heard the cops tried to cover up their little game until there were other complaints in the neighborhood that lead to them. The cops tried to say the canister was leaking, so taking it out and discharging it was their way of eradicating the problem.
      The city was trying to persuade the foreman's wife to sign a release before the city would pay for the hospital bills. When I found out, I told the foreman not to let his wife sign the release. I said, “Get a lawyer. Sue the bastards!” That's when I clued him in on the story about the conspiracy that evolved from the fire. I said, “Let me tell you about my little experience with the city of Tacoma and their fire department.”
      As I spent the time working there pretty much full time, the summer approached and I managed to keep myself more occupied with my painting business. As the summer approached, I noticed I did just fine without any medication.
      I more or less took a sabbatical from the hatchery over the summer and returned in the fall to finish up my community service. When my time was served, they said I was good worker and made sure I knew they appreciated the help I did provide.

The next chapter of Sunnyside's Lousy Book is:

Page 206
What a Family

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