Publishers….
In Dallas, that is, work out of some pretty serious digs.
Home after a bit of formal negotiation, will be back in AZ within one week to begin the dirty work.
paoloreed@gmail.com

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An Act to establish a clear and comprehensive prohibition of discrimination on the basis of disability
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I first met Audrey Peterson at one of the outdoor patio tables on the patient mall within 5-7 days of my early January, 2011, arrival to the civil section of The Arizona State Hospital. It was an astounding introduction, in no small part due the the sickeningly pitiful sight of a woman with only one arm and no laser legs in a wheelchair that requires two arms to operate. Audrey is very polite and lucid patient, in my experience, and after basic niceties, we got around to asking each other somewhat inevitable questions regarding what led us to be hospitalized at ASH, and as it turned out, we both had a history of depression and potentially lethal attempts at suicide. I will just note that in this sense, Audrey and I were able to find solace in coming to know one another, and that is something I still appreciate today. Audrey then went on to the describe the fact that she had lain her body down on top of a major railroad track on the NW outskirts of Tucson after drinking an excess of alcohol, where she fell into a deep sleep, and that a train had come along at some point and run over both of her legs and one of her arms. A narrative possessing drama of this sort is bound to catch anyone's attention, and somewhat begs the question of how in the heck anyone could possibly survive an accident of this magnitude; and for this very reason, as we continued talking, it occurred to me that I actually recalled Audrey's story when it was reported in Tucson area newspapers. I was deeply moved by coming to meet this woman at the time (2011), whose near death had very much caught my attention at the time it occurred (2003-05 or so), both due to the drama of the tale, as well in the context of my own experiences in terms of attempted suicide and related behavioral characteristics.
I believe that it was in our initial conversation that I went on to ask Audrey Peterson how in the hell it could be that she didn't have an electric wheel chair, and she told me:


I further attest that it is terrifying to experience this sort of mistreatment, particularly if you are a person affected by childhood trauma and other like characteristics specific to the issue of mental and emotional instability, as I am. What's most shocking to me, even today, is knowing as I do that the senior ASH psychiatrists I interacted with, from the four primary attending psyche docs assigned to me during my 13 full months at ASH- Laxman Patel, Pervaiz Akhter, Lynn Lydon, Slvia Dy- to ASH's chief medical officer at the time, Dr. Stephen Dingle- posses little to no evident awareness of how grossly egregious their given misconduct is, in fact.
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An Act to establish a clear and comprehensive prohibition of discrimination on the basis of disability
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Long term chronic depression is a bitch no matter who you are. I skated along on the peripheral aspects of its worst impacts for well over 30 years, which doesn't say much about the given severity of the condition, as much as it does about my ability to dodge bullets, as it were. While still a preadolescent member of my family, which effectively went from being that- a family- to a residue of sorts in less then 2 years (for myself, between the age of 11-13), I began experiencing a sense of isolation even when in the thick of school and/or in other like social settings; a sense of isolation, or "otherness" (for lack of a better word), so intense that I began seriously pondering the meaning of existence when I was 13, or so. I had lost an older brother to accidental overdose by then, and my father had also died in unexpected fashion when I was ten; and I distinctly recall a sort of knowing, in the next couple of years, that all I had to do to reunite with them was direct myself to death on my own terms. As such, the fundamental reality that suicide is an option set in while I was pretty young, and I even came close to attempting suicide on at least one occasion, when I was 14 years old and experiencing severe psychological abuse imposed upon me by my alcoholic mother, who went through very tough patch of life in own right during those years. I never really concerned myself with the ramifications of these matters at the time, as I had no one to turn to, and had to rely instead on a developing resilience that eventually carried me on and well into my adult life with little to no critically alarming life events. Or so I thought, and it took my first psychiatrist, in May, 2010, to alert me to the simple fact that anytime a 14 year old child seriously considers suicide, something is critically amiss in the emotional and psychological realm of that kids' mind and body.
Later in life, when I was a full on teenager, my bouts of depression occurred almost subtly; I was also an active user of marijuana by the time I was 17, which definitely served to lessen the impact of my lows; and straight out of high school I pursued such goals as dedicated ski bumming and long distance trail running in the northern Rockies (which is basically a really fun lifestyle); while all through my twenties, I was a committed high level bicycle racer, which also immersed me in so pleasurable a day to day existence that my depression was almost like a relative sleeping in the guest room of my mind. Again, I recall these periods of my life quite clearly, and through it all, I always knew that the time would come in my life when I would be faced with the "hunger" that I had first experienced at the age of 12 or so. For depression is something akin to hunger, in my opinion today, a wanting of sorts that exists on the basis of unavoidable interests in things not defined by commonly understood lines of self awareness.
depression began kicking in when I was in my mid-thirties, married, attending college on a full time basis, and addicted to alcohol for the first time in my life. I was married to a very nice woman, and throughout all of it, I managed to do exceptionally well in school, which I basically attribute to my given maturity and related experiences in the blue collar working world. But I was also falling into marked patterns of withdrawal from my immediate surroundings, and at least on of my ASH psychotherapists, a very nice young man named Dr. Holmes, concluded that I may have experienced minor to moderate schizoidism (which is characterized by emotional aloofness and solitary habits). It was a strange period in my life (1995-2006), at times intense and satisfying, at times very difficult and almost crippling, but I tried to hang in there, and was far too proud to ask for help. The marriage crumbled and finally imploded entirely in 1999, and by the time I was in the second year of my scholarship funded legal education at The James Rogers College of Law in 2003 (University of Arizona, Tucson), I had lost the bulk of whatever tenacity I'd once had in terms of managing my emotional/mental well being in the face of chronic depression. It was seemingly rapid, my eventual collapse into madness, but I know now that all I was really up to for all those years was dancing around and away from my inevitable return to suicidal ideation. And I did, finally, give up avoiding the depths of my inner self in 2006 (during the spring of which I seriously attempted suicide for the first time), finally arriving at the terminus of a long, slow burning process of coming home, as it were, to my preadolescent desire to go, go, go away, and never look back.
These aspects of my progress as a patient to that date evaporated just about as soon as I arrived at ASH, however, in part due to the theft of my personal property as soon (literally) as I got there (see May 02, 2012 "Summary"), but more significantly due to the meanness of Ash staff, including a really nasty old white haired nasally voiced bitch of a charge nurse named Peggy, who tried to sink her psychologically abusive talons into my sense of peace and mind as a new patient on the Paolo Verde East unit on my third night there. It was as though all of the earlier assurances of the mental health community had been pissed on, and the hand offered to me through months of good faith therapeutic interaction had been jerked way, encouraging me to fall back into the despair of my mental illness' worst manifestations. Therein, my experiences at ASH from the get go were pretty much downhill; over my first 2-4 months in that accursed facility I increasingly found myself in conflict with abusive staff technicians and nurses and the related incompetence of my first primary attending physician, Dr. Laxman Patel, (who chastised me for voicing concern over the patient abuse that I was witnessing and experiencing first hand), and I also began to learn about the extent of administrative shortcomings at ASH. It was disturbing and unsettling to such an extent that my relative stability obviously deteriorated as a direct consequence of the substandard practices at ASH.
By the time I met the human rights advocate, John Gallagher, in late spring, 2011, I was neck deep in an unexpected recurrence of a seemingly permanent state of despair that had settled in when I first entered the psyche wards in 2010, (a "recurrence", or backward plunge, that I fully attribute to the close mindedness and related incompetence of administrative staff at ASH, such as the patient advocate, Sonya Serda), a phase of time wherein I actively compromised my absolute willingness to allow suicide to settle my affairs by opting, instead, for a dedicated and good faith exploration of whatever the mental health professionals in the psychiatric hospitals could offer someone like me. At ASH, my sense of choice (vs. my appreciation for my treatment) began to dictate the situation, and to someone like me, suicide is always an option; I was thus led into reconsidering my initial commitment to remain honest with my caregivers at all costs. There is a thing in the psyche wards known known as "contracting for safety", wherein a patient such as me is asked to promise the staff that I won't commit suicide (or otherwise hurt myself) on the basis of good faith trust. But at ASH, I encountered staff who made it very clear to me that my diagnosis as a chronically suicidal patient was not something they gave a rat's ass about, individuals who overtly suggested through their actions that I would do them all a favor if I were to crawl into a hidden corner and die. So the merits of contracting for safety sort of petered out on the basis of me learning the hard way that ASH staff can't be trusted in any sense of the word.
I felt duped, for I had clearly been lied to more than once by staff, and I had been demeaned, graphically insulted, and verbally abused; and in seeing brutal forms of psychological abuse imparted on some of my most vulnerable peers, my cynicism about my own species flared up so strongly that I began developing the first signs of deep distrust for the ones assigned to care for me. Why would any reasonably sound mind want to "contract" with people like them? This, the gist of ASH' most depraved staff members, people who quite clearly don't value the primary objectives of standardized mental health care and treatment.