2021.12.02 22:21 heracleides2 Top Critical Care Doctor Sues Hospital Not Allowing Him To Use FDA Approved Drugs To Treat COVID [VIDEO]
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2021.12.02 22:21 Lucky_kal8228 Cinematic music| i walk with ghosts.
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2021.12.02 22:21 totoropengyou A patient on a psychiatric ward taught me to make origami hearts.
On my third day on the psychiatric ward, a patient taught me how to fold origami.
Nobody wants to be locked in the "loony bin", as my less-than-supportive mother had once referred to it. But as little as I want to admit it, sometimes it's the best place for us to be. For me, it took a farewell note and a bottle of pills I was too cowardly to down at the last moment. I met others who made similar attempts, some who heard voices, some who self-harmed and a hundred other things that makes the outside world too much to deal with. Or likely us too much to deal with. After all, the world keeps turning even when you're in a hospital bed.
"This place is enough to drive anyone crazier!" was a common sentiment from my "neighbour" - the woman in the bed next to mine. Diane was my rock during those weeks. We were three to a room, but the other occupant was elderly and non-verbal. Her husband rarely left her side, and her children brought her baskets of fruit every day. If I ever get sick when I'm old, I hope I have a family like that, too.
Diane was the one who taught me origami. She was a long-stay patient with severe bipolar disorder. Her bad days were hard to see. Sometimes, she'd be sobbing about how much she wanted to die and have to spend hours alone in the therapy room. Other times, she'd be gripped with her own peculiar religious mania, singing songs to Buddha in a language of her own invention. She wrote a song to help me once, too. Maybe that's what got me released - who knows?
But it was a good day when she taught me origami. I think it's a really useful skill to have. That's why I want to talk about it now.
One day, I woke up to a room full of paper hearts. Red, purple, blue, pink - even some cool patterns and glittery paper. Her sister had dropped off some craft supplies last night and she'd gone to town. I picked up one while she was busy folding some black paper with white polka dots. The one I chose was yellow. It was covered with small, cramped handwriting - one of Diane's songs, I assumed.
"So, what's with all the hearts? Isn't it a bit early for Valentine's Day?" I joked. That's how I knew it was a good day for me, too. I could rarely tell even the worst jokes on bad days. Depression is unpredictable like that.
Diane barely looked up, but I saw her smile. "Hearts are pretty and they show love. Don't you think everyone in this hospital needs a bit more love?"
I glanced over at the elderly woman in the last bed. A pink, glittery heart sparkled on her bedside table. I don't think she had noticed.
One of the nurses bustled in with her Nurse Truck. Is there a name for those? They were wheeled stations with small computers containing all our medical info, a blood pressure machine, and of course all the meds us patients could need. We just called them Nurse Trucks for obvious reasons.
"Good morning! Violet, how are you feeling?"
"Not bad, thank you. And you?"
"Busy as ever. Here's your meds. Breakfast will come around any time now."
I took my medicine as the nurse watched. I hated that part. Even now, I have to take my pills in private.
"Have you seen Diane's hearts? I think she's making enough for the whole ward."
"How couldn't I notice?" The nurse moved over to Diane. She still hadn't looked up. The nurse picked up one too - a blue one with navy stripes. This one didn't have any writing. "Diane, I'm glad you've found a nice way to spend your time."
Finally, Diane looked up. Her bright blue eyes were wide. "They're very important. Don't you think we all need more love?" Her speech was getting faster and more erratic. I looked away.
The nurse's smile was nothing but warm. "You have a wonderful heart yourself, dear. But can you stop a moment and take your pills?"
Diane and I always took our medicine without complaint. But down the hall, we could already hear someone crying.
"Do you want to learn how to make these hearts?"
"Huh?" We were in the art therapy room. It also doubled as the group therapy room, snack room, library, board games room and - quite often - a place for people to scream. Right now, it was solidly stuck in art therapy mode. I had cheap colourful clay under my fingernails from the figure I was making.
"The hearts. Like the one I gave you. Do you want to know how to make them?"
I glanced at the figure I'd been making. All the colours in the world couldn't make it look less like a child's impression of a sheep-cat-pig. "Sure. Just let me wash my hands."
Later, Diane sat me down along with two other patients at a clean table. Each of us held a square piece of paper. I'd chosen classic red, with a less-classic pattern of eyeballs. Diane's sister really had chosen some fun paper to bring.
We all waited expectantly. Diane unbuttoned her shirt and carefully unzipped the skin of her chest. Carefully, she picked out one of her hearts - plain lilac, and still pulsing. The heat from it turned her hand a little pink. She zipped herself up and buttoned her shirt before unfolding the lilac heart.
"All ready? Okay. First, you need to fold the paper diagonally - oh, coloured side down, by the way - then unfold. It should look like it's a diamond in four sections. Keep the top corner folded down the the middle."
It took me all of five seconds to tear the paper. Diane tutted, then handed me another identical paper square.
"Next, fold the top point of the paper right up to the crease in the middle. Then fold the bottom point up so that it meets the top point -- no, Steven, not like that -- yes, that's better. Now, fold the right side up diagonally, too. It should all meet and align with the middle."
As she gave instructions, she folded her own lilac heart with ease. When she unfolded it, the pulsing had slowly ceased, but now it was beginning to beat again. The paper in my own hands was already starting to resemble a heart. I could feel a small trembling beginning in the paper, too.
"Next, repeat the same thing on the left side, just like before. It should always meet the middle crease, like this. It should be looking more like a heart -- yes, you all got it! Can you feel them starting to beat? Isn't it beautiful?"
Steven looked like he was about to cry. The baby-blue heart in his hands quivered like jelly as his own hands shook. The other patient - I never learned his name - looked faintly bored. His heart was steel grey, with thin white stripes.
"Finally, look at the top of the heart. There are these two little triangles, kinda like cat ears. But we don't want those! Flip the heart over and turn down those top points; just over a centimetre should do it. Turn it over again and ta-da! There's your heart!"
Maybe it sounds dumb to get so emotional, but I genuinely teared up when I saw the heart. As tears welled in my eyes, the heart seemed to beat harder like hummingbird wings. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Steven looking at his own in pure wonder. But the other patient looked faintly disgusted.
"What's the point in all this?" he snapped. A few faces turned to look our way. "A paper heart - is this supposed to make us less crazy? Or fix the things in us that are broken?"
Diane looked confused, and a little upset. "It's just love. We all need a little more love in ou--"
"Bullshit." The man had tears in his eyes. "We're all broken. None of these little paper things can fix us. We're all just fucked up in the head, and you know it."
"I really think you should--"
"No! They put us in here for a reason - to keep us away from the normal people. We'll never be like them. Your fucking hearts can't change that."
The patient pushed out his chair and stomped out of the room. (Do you know how hard it is to stomp in hospital-issued grippy socks?) His own heart lay discarded on the table. It beat weakly, like a rabbit already snared by a fox, waiting for its jaws to snap.
It was hard to give the patient too much attention. I was entranced by my own heart. The colour seemed more vivid a red than anything I had ever seen. The more I looked, the more perfectly straight and smooth the lines and creases seemed. The tiny patterned eyes seemed to stare into my soul... but with compassion. No judgement, just a dreamy, almost sleepy kind of fondness.
"You can keep it in your chest if you want." Diane's voice snapped me back into reality. "I think it's comforting. I always keep a few, just in case." I didn't ask just in case of what.
Once again, she unbuttoned her shirt and opened her chest. Pretending to avert my eyes, I guiltily peeked at the contents of her chest. It was filled to the brim with heart of every colour and size. Some clearly had messages in her own made-up language. Others even had tiny pictures, but I was too far away to see exactly what.
Steven unzipped his chest. It was much emptier. Just a faded photograph, a wedding band and a tiny, scruffy teddy bear wearing a soft blue jumper.
I took a deep breath before I unzipped mine. My things probably looked strange to anyone who didn't know me. I didn't keep photographs, I lost my family years ago and I'd never had a spouse or child to keep mementos from. Instead, I had a marble I'd won from a game back in primary school. The yellow glass glowed like the fire of a tiny soul. Next to it was a clip of white fur from the cat I'd had practically my entire childhood. This was impractical - occasionally, the hair would slip and tickle my lungs, but I didn't mind the odd cough here and there. The only other item was a clipping from a magazine. A local newspaper had published a piece about my family, after the car accident. I suppose it counted as a photograph. I had hated my family - they were abusive, kept me far away from therapy and meds, and always made me feel like the smallest creature in the world. But I still loved them, somehow. I kept that clipping for the obvious reasons - to keep my family close to my heart - and for another reason: it bore the name of the drunk driver who took their lives. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.
I added the paper heart to my chest and zipped myself right back up. My hands trembled as I pulled my shirt back over my head. I could already feel the heart tremble, too.
Diane picked up the discarded heart. Smiling ruefully, she added it to the collection heaving within her chest. It must have been my imagination, but I thought I could see her heart beating faster after that.
I never made another paper heart after the first, but I saw more patients join Diane at her table day by day. Within a week, it seemed almost everyone on the ward had their own origami heart. Some of us kept them inside our chests. Others could be seen peeking out of pockets, or standing guard on bedside tables. Even a few nurses had been seen getting in on the trend.
The angry patient didn't like to see the hearts. Once, I saw him rip the heart from the hands of a younger patient. Daniel was barely eighteen and had scars littering his arms. Small and slight, he cowered as the patient raged at him.
"What the fuck do you think this is going to do for you? You need to man up, that's what. None of these little girly hearts will fix whatever's got you fucked up. Act like a man and you might learn something--"
That was all he got to say before the nurses none-too-gently herded him away, but we all saw the tears running down Daniel's face. The heart he'd had stolen was still in the patients hands. We asked around later, but no patient nor nurse seemed able to find it.
We all tried to persuade him, but Daniel refused to fold another heart.
I didn't much understand the patient. My memory was hazy, as I had a bout of ECT every other weekday. It left me feeling weak and disorientated to say the least. Maybe that's why I can't recall his name, even now. But Diane's hearts stuck out in my mind even so. When I felt dizzy waking up after the treatment, the heart seemed to ground me. When I had bad days that seemed to stretch on into unimaginable bleakness, the heart seemed to beat a bit more warmly. And when I woke up in the middle of the night sobbing from night terrors that the dim hospital lights couldn't chase away, the heart tightened into what felt like a hug, deep within my chest.
How could the patient hate such things? Many of the patients revered Diane - for all her illness, she had brought a real and lasting kind of love to the patients that pills and therapy hadn't managed to tough. I learned the name of our elderly patient one day when her husband showed her the heart. Sobbing, elderly Henry pressed the pink heart into Vera's hands as he recounted a hundred memories with the woman he loved - of holidays to the seaside with their children, sticky toffee pudding at Christmas, rainy days with hot tea and Scrabble, even of buying their first ever colour television set. When her children visited, they passed the heart around in a state of awe. Vera just nodded and smiled, so I was never quite sure if she understood.
It seemed like Diane's magic was slowly but surely saving us all. The problems didn't start until the few weeks before I was due to leave the hospital.
Steven was the first. He banged on our door with such ferocity, all the nurses nearby came running. He was yelling for Diane before one had even managed to touch his arm.
"What did you do? What did you do with my heart?"
He was hysterical - bright red in the face, tears streaming, nose running, hiccuping. The whites of his eyes were tinged pink, as though he'd been quietly sobbing all night.
Diane was having a bad day herself. She lay in her bed, unable to move. It was like sharing a room with a statue. Her voice, when she did speak, sounded far away and ten times her age.
"I don't know what you are talking about..."
Steven howled. The nurses were already taking him away to the quiet room. His grief was infectious, and soon other patients started to cry and wail, too. I rubbed my eyes and decided to stay in bed.
Diane still didn't move. The elderly woman hadn't even woken up. I raised my head and called out to Diane softly.
"Hey, Diane. Are you okay? Whatever's wrong, it's not your fault."
"That's not true." Her words came out slowly, almost slurring. She sounded like she was lost in the sea, and too tired to strive towards the shore. "It's always my fault. I can never, ever do the right thing..."
I didn't know what to say, but it didn't matter. The doctor showed up to wheel me away for the day's ECT. After that, I was too worn out to do anything for most of the day.
After I woke up, I heard more and more of the stories. A woman down the hall had had a bad manic episode during my treatment. When they opened her chest, they discovered her heart was luminescent, and beating so fast the nurses didn't believe it to be simple origami at first. Another older patient started hearing bombs in the middle of the day - loud explosions, triggering him to stay in bed cowering in fear and rambling about his friends lost to war. With each blast, he felt his heart beat with the fury of an enemy bomb. One of my closer friends on the ward, Rowan, found a way to self-harm - don't ask how, but the desperate often find a way. Her heart revealed a multitude of thin slices, just like the cuts that littered her stomach and thighs.
Another friend, Joseph, confided in me one day. By this point, many of the people with origami hearts had taken them out. Joseph hadn't. But he came to me one time during lunch. We were both sitting in the art-room-turned-canteen, poking around at the bowls of rice and vegetables (oily and slimy, do not recommend) we'd been served that day.
"It says we're going to die."
"What?" Joseph's eyes had dark shadows beneath them. His breath came in shallow shudders.
"We're going to die. My heart says the nurses put chemicals in the medicine. To see how they react, you know? And they're watching us, watching all the time, to see what happens. That's what my heart says. It whispers so the nurses don't hear."
I'd never had any experience with paranoid schizophrenia, so I had no idea what to say then. It seemed I didn't have to. Joseph pulled out his heart and pressed it into my hands.
"Just take a listen. I'm not crazy. The heart says we need to stop taking their pills and--"
"--and you're not crazy, the nurses are spies, they're from the government, they use you like lab rats, they fill you with chemicals to see how you react and we just sit there and take them, they want to use us like rats, even now they're watching--"
It was bizarre to hear this tiny, butter-yellow heart beating furiously and whispering insane things in Joseph's own fragile whisper.
The nurses didn't know what to do. Some of the ones with hearts became ill themselves. My favourite nurse stopped showing up one day. Bertha was a great nurse. She listened to all our woes, held our hands when we cried and sat with us through countless nightmares. But one day, she didn't show up for her shift. We all knew the hearts were to blame.
Diane was a wreck. Some people were adamant that her hearts were their saviours, and it was all the fault of the bearers. Most thought she'd invented some horrendous plot to make us all truly mad. They shunned her and called her cruel names when the nurses couldn't hear.
I only saw Diane's hearts once. She was sitting on her bed so silently, I don't think she noticed me slip back into our room. The elderly woman had moved to another ward, so it was just the two of us. I moved as quietly as I could to my own bed and watched her in silence.
Diane unzipped her chest. The hearts that tumbled out were blackened in places, and tinged with grey in others. Some corners wilted, while others had grown as jagged as knives. I suddenly had an idea as to how Rowan had slashed her thighs.
Diane waited until every last heart had fallen from her chest. Then, with the lethargy of a woman twice her age, she slowly curled into the fetal position and began to moan. The nurses were slow to arrive, even after I hit the emergency button three times. By then, Diane was buried beneath her origami hearts, but her moaning was loud enough to echo down the ward.
My first nightmare came that night.
I wasn't in the ward. I was at home, with my girlfriend and our three cats. We were drinking green tea and sitting upon the balcony, watching the sun set as we often did in summer evenings. The cats were playing together on the rub and constantly crashing into the little iron chairs my Marlene had bought from the second-hand shop. The sunlight made her hair glow golden as it faded over the horizon.
"Isn't this wonderful?" I said, sipping tea from my favourite cup. Marlene didn't answer.
"Marlene? Are you okay?" Marlene turned to me. Her eyes were intricately folded. I had never seen origami so deft, nor paper so black. I screamed and dropped the teacup over the balcony as the cats vanished into thin air.
"Marlene!" She opened her mouth and hearts began to pour out, in every colour of the rainbow. All of them were diseased somehow. Creased, crumpled, maligned with bulging paper tumours or slit open with tiny cuts. I saw my own heart vomited out into her lap. It was smoking, as though saved from a fire. The more I screamed, the more hearts seemed to pour out until they rained from the balcony. A cascade of paper in the setting sun.
I didn't get out of bed the following day. I lay there and sobbed silently. The doctor increased my medicine. I felt nothing.
My next nightmare, I was on holiday. A trip I'd taken as a child to Blackpool, back when my parents were both still alive and still incredibly dysfunctional. There'd been a hundred things from that trip I could've mentioned in therapy - my parents arguing non-stop, my father yelling at my fear looking down from Blackpool tower, my mother refusing to go on any amusement park rides out of spite so we just walked around in tense silence. But in my dream, I was remembering the good things. The 99p ice cream cone ("never 99p any more, are they?") I'd eaten on the beach, not caring about the sand blowing into the soft whip. The feeling of the sand beneath my toes as the ocean rushed to meet them. A particularly brave seagull stealing my father's fish and chips, minutes after he'd bought them - no refunds. But I was standing on the pier and watching the light play over the sea when I first saw the monster.
It was horrendous. It shouldn't have existed. It was a blight to the eye. This beast, folded a hundred ways then a hundred more, creases as sharp as knives, teeth glittering like spikes from a mouth made of cruel edges. Its head and arms was covered in paper horns - like the tips of the hearts we'd folded down on that first day of creation. Wherever it walked, the air seemed to tear - thin seams seemed to split the very fabric of the world itself, leaking in darkness from whatever exists beneath.
Thing is, at the end of a pier, there's nowhere to run.
As it approached, it gave out a mighty bellow of hurt and rage. It sounded like my mother, my father, my grandparents, my teachers and my doctors all at once.
I didn't take a moment to hesitate before I threw myself into the sea.
My meds increased again. They tasted like seawater.
The heart in my chest burned. The edges of it were all singed, like it had barely escaped a dragon's breath. I held it in my hands like a bomb ready to explode and thought of Joseph's delusions. What if they were right? Bertha had been the nicest nurse by far. They could've gotten to her, so she didn't stop whatever sick plans they had going on--
No. I'd voluntarily admitted myself to the ward for a reason. I wanted to get better. I needed to get better - for Marlene, our cats, our friends, and most importantly, myself. I'd always taken my meds, hadn't I? I'd gone to group therapy, seen my own counsellor every week, messed about in art therapy, cried in a nurse's arms and screamed like hell after the first bout of ECT. And I'd kept going. That was a fact. I'd been strong enough to do all that - would I let a conspiracy theory, or even a monster, stop me now?
As I thought, the heart in my hands seemed to quiver. The singes around the edges faded, ever so slightly. Replaced was a shimmery, opalescent radiance.
My head felt clearer than it had all week.
Rowan came back to the ward with bandages covering her legs, but no fresh wounds. Her heart was battered but shone with the most entrancing inner light. She showed it to me proudly, emphasising how well it fit between the photograph of her boyfriend and the tiny childhood ragdoll in her chest. "Isn't it the most beautiful thing you have ever seen, Violet?" I could only agree.
Joseph still hears voices, but - though I hate the cliché - he knows they're all in his head. His heart doesn't whisper to him after he started ECT, too. He keeps it pinned to his sleeve now. Apparently, it sometimes has some genuinely useful things to say.
Diane made a new heart for Steven. It was his favourite shade of green. They decorated it together with glittery gel pens - leaves, flowers and tiny seeds. He wanted to be a botanist one day. I hope he succeeds.
And the man, the one who threw away his own heart so carelessly in his rage?
I saw that very same heart, standing on his bedside table.
Diane was the last person I saw before I left the psychiatric ward. She was still folding those origami hearts. It seemed everyone in the hospital wanted one now - or at least, she'd made enough for everyone. I hugged her tenderly, and - using all of my courage - asked to see her own hearts in her chest. She smiled only a little bashfully before she unzipped herself.
Gold, silver, bronze, yellow, red, green - those colours are all too simple for Diane's hearts. There's a kind of goodness from Diane that makes them more than colourful. They radiate like souls. They glimmer like jewels. They sparkle in the sun like every fond memory you've ever had.
Before I left, Diane gave me one last heart. It was covered in writing. I expected it to be her own strange language, but instead, I saw this:
Be strong, Violet. A flower like you can grow anywhere, even in dirt.
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2021.12.02 22:21 Spectating110 How do you become a lasting likeable person?
2021.12.02 22:21 Mrqs1997 I Created a Nostalgia Playlist
I wanted to create a playlist that recreated the atmosphere of listening to the radio as a Zillennial during the era of electropop (mainly during 2009-2012) so I did a little project where I pulled data from Billboard’s Hot 100 charts, between the dates of June 15, 2009 and September 30, 2012.
I specifically grabbed every song that charted in the Top 20 during that timeframe and then matched it to Spotify track using an online Spotify Importer tool. After matching the songs, I randomized the playlist order, but feel free to shuffle through the playlist if you get tired of the current order.
The playlist can be accessed here. If you want me to create playlists for other eras, just let me know. I’m planning on creating and sharing a Y2K playlist as well
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2021.12.02 22:21 Peerism1 msds621: NEW Courses - star count:228.0
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2021.12.02 22:21 OGDustO Banksy NFTs!! Own, collect, and experience art masterpieces through the blockchain and NFTs. Powered by Avalanche.
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2021.12.02 22:21 SilberBug Move to Puerto Rico, on paper or physically. Don't pay taxes to the corrupt US government! make PR the island of the apes!
2021.12.02 22:21 Some_Spirit_7735 Hey! Join Strike and earn $5 when you sign up and verify your account using my referral code 308Q3V: https://invite.strike.me/308Q3V
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2021.12.02 22:21 GherkinP To the monkey at Microsoft, please stop telling me about the Sharepoint and OneDrive dropdown issue.
2021.12.02 22:21 Lissyluck1 If you were given $10000 what are you plans for it?
2021.12.02 22:21 Far-Pay-58 Elk Finance | Super limited edition of 100 Moose #NFTs on offer from this Saturday! These Moose come with tons of utility and valuable benefits. Learn how to mint Moose by reading the article and visiting app.elk.finance 👇
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2021.12.02 22:21 qst10 What happened to yolo and swag ?
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2021.12.02 22:21 pl0323 Color & B/W
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