This Is How People Like Me Die.

Lawsuits fighting against MAID MI-SUMC that have nothing to do with the charter, and only misplaced grief- are killing me. (These pictures are nothing compared to the murder shows we all love).

I knew when I started writing on Substack under my real name, I made a commitment. I don’t make commitments, because I can’t. There are days when I can’t move at all, and days where I write nothing but gibberish. None of my subscribers ask me to publish more often than I do, no one has pressured me. I want to publish what I write all the time. I just can’t. I write for hours every day; I have three stories/essays that are as ready to go as they’ll ever be (without an editor), but I can’t. I’m scared. Sometimes I wish those who read me knew that writing is all I do (beyond scrolling through Amazon), but it makes no difference. People always say it’s the thought that counts, which is one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard.

I don’t want to be a drag- I’m so depressing. I’m also scared that if I tell the truth about how I feel, I’ll get in trouble. How can I be a good writer when all I can say might be regarded as “defamation”, or get me locked in the hospital? People don’t understand- not parents or partners, not doctors, best friends, no one. There are two sets of societal rules: the ones we all know, and the invisible ones for crazy people. I’m too sad and angry to give you countless examples I’ve faced in the past few years- and I’m a white woman.

I’m just going to write this then, and hope for the best.

I never expected anyone who reads this publication to actually give me an answer to what I’ve asked in my posts so far. In Humpty Dumpty Sat On A Fence, I asked what type of interventional therapy I should get; I have to decide soon. Not necessarily a medical opinion, but what would anyone else do? I wanted to know what you think, or what you’d do if you were me- electric shocks, a hole drilled into your skull, or tapping your brain with the help of electromagnetic coils? Frankly, I’d rather just keep doing ECT until my brain is fully fried. It never works, but at least I’d forget everything.

In I Won’t Make It To March 17th 2027, I asked what more I could do, and for how long should I continue (regarding therapy, meds, sobriety, etc.), since it’s been nearly 34 years. I’m not asking my readers to save me. No one can save me. People get sick and die. That’s life. I just want to know what you would do if you were me. I’m trying to live through the lawsuit for equal rights. Do you think I’ll be able to? Could you, do you think, if you read my story?

I have been alone on Christmas since 2019. In December 2020, I saw my stepfather for a couple of hours, knowing he only had a few months to live. His funeral was the last time I saw most of my family. Maybe others in my family have passed, but I can’t hear about it. For over two decades, I volunteered throughout the holidays. It started so I could spare my family from me, but it became the joy of my life. There was a shelter I volunteered at a few days a week all year, serving between 700-1200 people on any given day (before 1130am). The entire budget for that shelter was $1 million a year. A quarter of that money went to buying coffee. That was five years ago, and I don’t imagine the situation has improved. I always loved December 26th at that place, because while the line was still massive (and there were always children that day), we got to wait on them- like it was a restaurant. They even had courses; a salad, some turkey and potatoes, a roll of bread, and pie. As much juice or coffee as they wanted. We kept it moving to be sure- the dining hall only sat around 150-200ish people, but between the Brothers, Sisters, Priests and volunteers, it was good. It was good. I was a bartender/server on and off for two decades, and when I was well, I was good at my job. That skill never came in handy as much as it did on that day. It made me happy. I would feel happy that day. Everyone was so appreciative, so polite, so kind. There’s no status in a place like that. I think of the places I’d help at over the holidays, and that’s what I miss. You’ll never see as much grace and class as you will in a homeless shelter.

My doctors sometimes say I should try to volunteer again- maybe even just once- but that’s the last thing I can do. I’ve always been sick, but I loved talking to people. Now, that’s the last thing I can do. I loved to go outside, walk around whatever city I lived in, go to sports events and concerts, galleries, plays, movies… I was very physically affectionate, I loved cuddling. I had friends, family, I worked, I had a desire for sex and romance and food and consistency and company. It’s all the last thing I can do. I don’t even know what any of that means, anymore. It’s not for me. None of it is for me. I don’t even exist.

Have you ever lost someone you loved? Have you ever lost everyone you loved? Have you ever been a 47-year old woman who’s completely dependent on her Mother? Have you ever had to ask your sister to take an entire afternoon off work so she can take you to the dentist? Have you ever been terrified of being touched and talked to by a dentist, humiliated by the state of your teeth? Have you ever tried to explain why in the past five years, your teeth have started to split on the tops from grinding them, and why you get lock-jaw from clenching it so tightly all day and night? Did you cry as he showed you how to reposition it when it locked open? Did you ever need to get your psychiatrist to take you through the steps to make sure you got your eyes checked and get new glasses because you couldn’t see- for years? Did you ever want to go back to your 12-step program but can’t be seen or talked to, without having panic attacks just thinking about it? Are your nails yellow and cracked and bumpy? Is your hair falling out? Do you spend two hours getting ready to take out the trash? Did you ever go months without human touch? Did you ever go out at night twice in five years, three years ago? Did you ever try to get on a plane but they wouldn’t let you because despite having all of the prescriptions on hand, they know what the meds are for, and they “need to keep the passengers safe”? Did you ever get a permanent tear on your nostril because of wiping your nose from crying so much? Did you ever have to sell all your nice stuff- even gifts? Did ever try to kill yourself? Were you ever embarrassed by the scars all over both arms, and try to hide the burns on top of burn scars? Have you ever been in restraints for days? Have you ever had people hate you and you agree with them and are thankful they get it? Are you never believed? Do you have equal rights? Have you ever wished to be set on fire or get your head chopped off instead of what you live through every day? Did you ever want to jump off a building, but not want to traumatize an entire street- even if you did it in the middle of the night? Did you ever feel deathly ill, but the very last place you can go is into the hospital? Were you ever just someone’s memory? Only an idea? Were you ever not real? Were you ever nothing?

I was never supposed to be here this long. Last Christmas, I knew I would be put out of my unrelenting misery in 2024. I knew I would be free. I knew I could leave this world in safety and love. It was supposed to be in 2016 (when MAID was legal for Canadians), but who was I to think I deserve what you do? Then I waited and it was supposed to be in 2023. Then 2024. Now 2027. I am telling you again- I will not make it until then. There is nothing complicated about my situation, nothing confusing, nothing immoral or unethical. I am a complainant in a lawsuit taking on the government to fight for equal rights, and even that won’t be enough to save me. And what if I do make it? Shall I live like this? You wouldn't even be able to bear watching it. I can’t even speak about the real horrors of my situation, because I could be put in the hospital. That is the most damaging thing that could happen to me. I would rather be stabbed to death.

I’m asking you- what am I supposed to do? I’m already in palliative care. I’ve already been approved for MAID MI-SUMC. I won’t go through the lists of every treatment I tried and everything I’ve done in order to alleviate the pain. What would you do if you were me? Keep in mind that everyone will think your symptoms are choices. You’ll even agree, and you'll thoroughly hate yourself. It doesn’t matter anyway- by default or design, you ruin everything. Just be careful of what words you use when you say that- you won’t even be considered for a dignified death if you so much as imply that you are not an easy person. No, I’ve never been a burden to anyone, I’m sure. Either way, that’s got nothing to do with equality, or why I need MAID. This is about politics and nothing else. Those who publicly advocate against MAID MI-SUMC aren’t protecting anyone but their own feelings. Feel what you will, abide by your moral code if you should, but don’t torture me with it because you can.

I’m sorry I don’t have cancer. I wish I did.

That wouldn’t even matter according to this latest lawsuit filed on behalf of a dead man who’d already been approved for MAID, but also happened to be a psychiatric patient. I read the news, and here’s what I understand- as someone who doesn’t know him, or his family. With all of my heart, I’m sorry they lost someone, but why they need to exert their anger and sadness by taking away my rights is not ok. Now who’s not thinking clearly? Maybe people think someone was lured into the “seductive world of murder”, which is being confused with MAID- relief, mercy and compassion. Maybe people think doctors were all in on killing this dude with MAID (that’s not a thing), or even just reckless. Either way, he’s/we’re being spoken for- dead or alive.

This man was already approved for MAID, and not for his potentially deadly psychiatric illness of course, since that’s illegal. One day, he was put in the psych ward at a Catholic Hospital. Now, why a person who happened to have BD was so intent on ending his pain that he went through the entire process of being assessed for MAID- would ever need to go to the psych ward, is anyone’s guess. It’s fully mystifying and let’s all scratch our heads. I never discourage people from going into the hospital- in fact, quite the opposite- but for him, it was a bad move. Now he’s criminalized for still wanting to die. On that day, despite being well enough for the privilege of a day pass, that poor man was killed by a doctor who persuaded him to get MAID? Correct me if I’m actually wrong about any of this.

Have you ever been on a day pass from any psych ward or psych hospital? Have you ever been in a Catholic Hospital in Canada? They don’t do abortions (unless the mother will die) and they’re sure as fuck not going to provide MAID. So, unless I’m really missing something, that man, again- already approved to die legally to end his unrelenting pain- needed to be treated for mentally breaking down. While there, and I imagine feeling a little better (or faked it, which never works), was let out in the world because psychiatric nurses and doctors agreed he was well enough for that privilege. He then went to another doctor/provider, outside of the hospital he was in, not with his assessors, and just… got MAID. The End.

If indeed I read it all wrong, and at its core I am misrepresenting what happened, or what their case is about- tell me about it. Also, it means there’s a way bigger problem than “safeguards” for MAID MI-SUMC. This means there’s a nonchalant, murdering doctor on the loose, looking for the ones who make up “the vulnerable population”, and “seducing them into the sexy world of murder culture”. Bad news, guys. That’s already a thing, and no one needs the excuse of MAID MI-SUMC to do it. It’s very rarely doctors, and usually politicians who do it covertly and dishonestly. (That’s my hot-take, by the way. You heard it here first.)

The doctors to be scared of are those who do nothing at all.

For example- pretend there’s an imaginary chief of an entire psychiatric unit, in a massive hospital, who’s loudly against MAID MI-SUMC, wants to impose his feelings, and govern doctors’ right to conscientious objection. BUT. Simultaneously, he refuses to see a patient who’s in palliative care, been in his ICpU, an in-patient, out-patient ECT, etc. That imaginary doctor won’t see the patient for a minute, even though the sick person tried for nearly a year, right outside his office, politely and normally, to his assistants. The patient quite literally asked this made-up doctor to help, because she wanted to die. He contacted the patient after a year (he never got the message) and said he was looking forward to speaking, but then imaginary chief of psychiatry only sent information about the dangers of MAID. Then, the imaginary psychiatrist in charge went on an imaginary podcast, and said that people just like the patient who asked to see him- to live- were “taking the easy way out”. Imagine a doctor like that? Be afraid of that guy.

Where are those safeguards? How nice it must be to not be crazy, but just a dick, and be in charge. How nice it must be for people to take you seriously, even if you're completely full of shit.

If you really care about this issue beyond reading headlines that craft your very firm belief, I’d like to ask you to focus on what’s real. At least make me feel real for a minute, before you decide. Think of me as if I were a person. Believe me for a minute, when I tell you that indeed I understand a lot of what I say, and do, and how I feel. Take me seriously when I say I never wanted my life like this. Pretend I’m real, please. Believe that I’m a person, too- just for the sake of humanity.

I am truly sorry those people with the latest lawsuit lost a person they loved. It’s also terrible that he had Bipolar Disorder. Still, I keep asking myself about what they claim. Did it really happen on a day pass, just like that? What stopped those filing the suit from piping up when he was assessed for MAID to begin with? He had two zoom calls and was approved for a safe, dignified death- for mercy, correct? That’s it? Two video calls, and then another doctor murdered him with MAID, as soon as they got the chance? Which one is it? If his Bipolar Disorder makes itself apparent, was he wrong about his other stuff that's killing him?

He didn’t even know what he was thinking, I guess.

It’s one thing to be out on a day pass, when literally no one would know, unless they see your hospital bracelet. It’s quite another to just be a person out in the world, going about your business, sans bracelet. He didn’t know it when he was getting assessed, he didn’t know it on his day out, and worse than that, he admitted he wasn't always sure he wanted to die. When we crazy people do experience some existential angst, we better shut our trap. Now he’s dead.

The answer is not to blame the wrong people- or anyone at all, and make sure no one with SPMI ever tries to get away with being an equal human being again. A lack of safeguards? What the fuck is medschool for? What do we think our doctors are up to when dealing with something unprecedented? Forgetting safety? Making decisions all willy-nilly? Is it the wild west and murder-time? The doctors who had two zoom calls with him, the doctors who let him out on a day pass, the MAID providers, all of them, wrong. So obviously, I should have to suffer for the family’s misplaced grief.

Tell me I’m being harsh after you’ve spent years being a ghost who’s completely non-functional. Whatever injustice these people feel have been committed against them is not enough of a reason to revoke my rights. Their situation is heartbreaking. It was more so for him- I promise you. Now they’re making it worse for me, and I just don’t think I can take it.

I know it’s not fair, I know it’s hard, but just because they can’t accept that a man who wanted MAID, but also had Bipolar Disorder is gone, and it didn’t happen the way they wanted it to, doesn’t mean there are “no safeguards”. Believe it if you have to, but understand what they are now putting me through. Understand that it’s preventing equality, undermining the opinion of doctors, nurses and providers, and mostly ignoring the possibility of my integrity. Leave me with what little I have left. I really am sorry for them. I wish it wasn’t like this either.

It doesn’t really matter though, does it? Once we’re dead, it’s easy to “claim” he said this, and meant that. We don’t even have to be nearly dead for people to speak, think and decide our motives for us. If you are a psychiatric patient, be careful about everything you do- but in the end, it won’t matter- they’ll speak and decide for you. They will do what they want to you, if you don’t comply. This is not just great fodder for films and books, it’s the truth. I am not the boss of me. The government won’t let me forget that I have no agency over my body, that I do not have the right to life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, or safety.

As I’ve said many times, people are entitled to their opinions, and there are valid reasons why one might oppose MAID MI-SUMC. Just remember that morality is not justice.

This misplaced anger, misunderstanding, disengaged citizens who craft beliefs based on soundbites and headlines, who’ll never be directly affected by this law, psychiatrists who can’t accept that sometimes, there is nothing more they can do… are putting people like me in grave danger. Be angry about the lack of education, let alone funding for mental health. Don’t just talk about how important that is- do something about it. Talking about it and shaking your head about how sad it is helps nothing.

Just stop wasting time with these bullshit lawsuits that have zero to do with the Charter, and only to do with personal grief and loss. You are killing me. You are legitimately killing me. Remember all of the money, time, and resources you’re wasting, for what was never meant to be a fight in the first place, and it’s not going to bring back any dead people. It sure as hell won’t prevent anything but honesty, safety, equality and mercy. For that reason, my death will be more gruesome than a murder, my family and friends will never get over it, and I’ll be nothing- just like now. I’m nothing.

You see now, why I find it difficult to publish what I write. Everyone will be mad at me, everyone will be bummed-out, and nothing will change. Should I ever have started writing under my real name?