ECT flashbacks

This week I told D I wanted to read the notes from my last admission.
D – “Why?”
“I’m having flashbacks about ECT.”
D – “What, specifically?”
“I know it happened twice but I can’t remember the first time now. It was the 11th treatment. But I remember the last one (13th). I went out, then awoke – unable to breathe in or move anything. I could hear talking. I tried not to panic – using some previous experiences while scuba diving – to stay calm and not panic about not breathing. Thinking-“not too dizzy yet, you can do this if you try harder.” Finally, finally I was able to open my eyes and let them know I was still there, still awake. Before they shocked me. But I was suffocating (can’t they see?), still not able to move my diaphragm. Started to panic. Luckily, they recognized the mistake and quickly knocked me out.”
D – “Why do you think reading the notes will help?”
“I remember someone telling me that I had had an asthma attack after one of the treatments and I think and want to check if they subsequently changed the induction protocol because of it. I’m trying to understand WHY it happened. Twice.” Everybody knows you’re essentially brain dead for a few hours after each treatment so I don’t remember if anyone mentioned the anesthetic induction problem to me. Kinda doubt it.
D – “I think you can request a copy of the records.”
“Yes, but they charge you.” I once had to pay over $500.00 for the records from a one month stay at this hospital. Maybe D can request the records – get them free (professional courtesy) and let me make a copy.
I still need to write a letter to the director of the ECT program and ask that their protocols are reviewed and beg that they don’t let this happen to anyone else. God knows how often this happens around the world.
So, once again, PTSD from therapy/therapeutic intervention. I know I will never again consent to ECT but I fear for the others out there. Doc.



Hunting and gathering in the Giant. Standing in line. “Sir?” She’s not talking to me. “Madam?” She is talking to me. “I can take you in this lane.” Do I look like a man today? Oh well.

Triggered by the shrink. “Are you going to go home and kill yourself?” No, shaking my head. Too late. It burrowed into my brain. “I should.”
I’ll cut, i’ll OD, i’ll swallow looping through. On replay. Can’t die until Mom does. Wolf whimpering in my left ear – “you should.” Fuck off, Wolf. Whatever you want. Don’t hurt anyone, OK? Text therapist. “Go outside.” A handful of Trazadone and Seroquel (how old ARE these?). Up hours later to puke into a trash can and back to bed. Crisis averted.

Crushing out another cigarette. How many is that today? 17 or 18 How many bong hits? 7, so far.

Last of the Summer Wine. Reruns. Seen them all. It takes me to Yorkshire every time. A few pints and come dancing.

Brintellix or Fetzima? Who cares. Neither.

“You need to visit your Mom.” Can’t.

Left feels like right. Facing south, but it feels like west. Can’t rotate the images around in my head.

I should…, play my guitar, color, do a crossword, clean my house, call someone, do the dishes, shower, make fresh hummingbird food, listen to music, get dressed, spill my guts, leave the house, do my taxes, get a haircut, put my education and training to some use, post a comment on someone’s blog, deal with the insurance company, learn to use the camera I had to have 8 months ago.

I…..exist. Breathing, eating, sleeping, smoking. Is that enough? To be a rock and not to roll. Doc