Yesterday, I started writing notes about what happened at the crisis unit at Quincy Mental Health Center. It's a depressing and upsetting subject, and the last thing that I feel like doing is writing about it. I did write several pages of notes; thinking and writing about it all enraged me. I am bitter about what happened to me there.
What happened to me when I tried to work last year was so awful that it took me several months to feel that I could address it by sending an email with a Word document attached, describing what had happened, to the Massachusetts Commission Against Discrimination. If I hadn't also gotten abused at the Pine Street Inn while I was working, then abused by the hospitals where I was admitted while waiting to get a Department of Mental Health respite bed at the crisis unit at Quincy Mental Health Center, and then abused at the crisis unit, maybe I could have gotten my report to MCAD sooner. It's emotionally debilitating to live the way that I live.
MCAD seems to have ignored my report; I haven't heard from anyone there.
I can never stay current about documenting everything that happens to me. I'm abused every day and another crisis is always about to happen in addition to the hell that my life already is all of the time.
Copyright L. Kochman, June 4, 2015 @ 1:25 p.m.
