Both of these men had stable places to live and many personal possessions, yet they had both been the ones who were instrumental in the loss of thousands of dollars of my possessions during the move out of my former apartment and now were both encouraging me to get rid of even more things. I knew that both hospitals and my Former Friend were trying to discourage me from reclaiming my life; unknowingly, they did me a favour in this respect as my determination became rather steely.
It was not until almost a year later that I discovered Former Friend’s complicity with the hospitals, which made his later declaration that he had not helped as a friend (that much was obvious by then), but “in the name of the Lord”, rather mystifying. From the almost romantic attention he suddenly showered on me after the surgery, leading up to his helping the hospital trick me into signing the papers for my permanent institutionalization, and then the steady but sure sullenness and discouragement that followed, he eventually became outright insulting and rude.
Please help if you can, there is information on how to help at the end of these posts. The last afternoon at Bridgepoint had an edge to it.
The social worker, during what was, I suppose, one last attempt to discourage me from leaving institutional life, finally shrugged her shoulders and said: “You’re just going to do what you want to when you leave here anyway.” It was as bizarre as her complaining that I had not used the wheelchair or her contention that I would not, somehow, be able to purchase food for myself.
After we parked in the underground garage, we got into the elevator, me with the walker piled with white plastic bags containing my clothing and other items I had in the hospital. A woman got on at the ground floor and looked at the walker and then at me.
I told her I had not and she murmured something pseudo-positive in reply.
Some staff came to say good-bye, including Maria, the ersatz cleaning lady, who seemed surprised when I gave her a quick hug.
I found it strange that he had not offered this, let alone his being very reluctant to allow me one night’s accommodation.Every so often, my Former Friend would come out and ask if he could throw things away, such as a French coffee press that merely needed cleaning. I found his continued devaluing of my possessions interesting.The previous year, on a visit to his place, I found it to be in a state of extreme clutter.I humoured myself for several hours by catching up on episodes of the UK soap opera Coronation Street on-line, which I had been unable to do with the inadequate Internet stick, and polished off what was left of the wine.When he returned late in the evening, my Former Friend looked at the empty bottle of wine and made a comment about my liver, that I should not drink, though he had opened the wine and offered me a glass at dinner.