1958 was the year that shaped my entire life. We finished building the house as far as we could, getting up to the second floor, but we ran out of funds and simply couldn't go any further. My father tried to get a loan but couldn't pull it off since he was the sole breadwinner. It was a tough era for borrowing back then... our whole family was heavily in debt. The house was eventually sold, and the money just covered what we owed. My mother wanted to fix a few things up in the apartment, but my father wouldn't hear of it; I remember things being tense between them for years... he used to hide whatever cash was left over. My mother used to find it stashed in shoes or hidden away in the soup under the trees.
She even bought a radio behind his back, hiding it whenever he was home. Goodness, looking back, I wonder why I worked so hard.
My health took a massive hit. My young body was still developing, but it was pushed way too hard during those years. I understood how brutal life could be, but despite everything, I found myself turning to alcohol more and more.
I had a very clear grasp of how difficult life was, but I spent a long time grieving for the childhood I lost... it took me ten years to finally crawl out from under all that.
Eventually, I finished my apprenticeship and started working out in the field, which is where I met my wife. Everything else has been pain, sadness, and struggle... you won't find "Communism" anywhere, mainly because I never sought it out or experienced it personally. Just like here in Australia today, I’m not much of a politics person, though that doesn't mean I don't understand the issues we face here or the problems going on in the world.
There is one thing I always say, and I'm proud of it: I am a true American at heart, though I made my own choices after living abroad for 40 years. I decided I didn't want to be some victim of circumstance anymore. My lifestyle changed, and my sons, now 31 and 42, have never lived in the old country and aren't interested in it. My grandkids come from mixed marriages—their mothers are Australian and English—so you can't really expect them to hold onto those old ties.
But I know that I might be more patriotic than those who boast about it, waving dollars around and making speeches. I visit the old country twice a year; love for your roots is something you carry in your heart, even if I occasionally joke about it. My family, my sons, and my wife know exactly how I feel.
Thanks to everyone for taking the time to read this!
Winter passed and spring arrived, which meant the garden had to be cleared and prepped before we could get back to building the house. I remember my dad used to borrow a truck from a local company and pay a driver by the hour. We’d head down to the banks of the Danube to pick up gravel ourselves; just the two of us loading the truck and then unloading it at the site. We managed to do two full trips in a single afternoon, working late into the evening.
Bricks were delivered to us, along with larger stones, since the design called for stone exterior walls and brick for the interior. The real struggle back then was finding cement; it was hard to come by. We used to haul 500kg loads in small batches all the way from Maximilian Highway over to Bukovac.
I vividly remember one time my father and I carried 50kg bags on our shoulders, lugging them over 4.4 miles the building.
It was a family affair—my father, my mother, and I did all the work on the structure. Once the basement and foundations were excavated, we started pouring the concrete. My father always handled the mixing, while my mother and I took turns every other round, mixing and then watering it down.
After the foundation was set, Dad worked on shaping the stones for the outer wall while I laid the interior bricks. That year, we finished the basement and even managed to pour the floor slab on a Sunday, thanks to some neighbors who owed my father a favor and stepped in to help.
By autumn, I was back working with my mother at my aunt's jewelry shop, spending night after night without any sleep. The following year, I was supposed to start my trade apprenticeship; I was finishing up my eighth grade of middle school.
That was also the last year I worked for my aunt, as there simply wasn't enough time left.
When next spring rolled around, the garden came first, and then we got back to the masonry. Dad worked on the exterior facade while I simultaneously worked on the interior. We managed to get the ground floor up, but it started getting too cold to continue.
We poured the concrete beams to prep for the floor slab the following year. Then I started my apprenticeship, and things got tough. We’d be up at 4:15 AM to grab breakfast before catching a bus to Mirogoj, then jumping on two different trams just to make it to work by 6:00 AM. On top of that, I had school three afternoons a week from 2:00 PM to 7:30 PM. So, I was working three 8-hour shifts and three 4-hour shifts before school.
It was becoming difficult to juggle everything—the job, school, and the construction site. I had started smoking by then, and during the concrete pours, it was common to have a few drinks. It was the same at the construction sites where we worked on buildings; people drank a little at first, but by the second year of my apprenticeship, it escalated quite a bit.
I remained very withdrawn and focused solely on work, but I was already leaning toward alcohol. At the time, I couldn't see anything wrong with it because everyone else was doing the exact same thing.
next I’ve shared my life story up to the ten-year mark, more or less. The years between 10 and 15 were easily my hardest. I wouldn't wish them on anyone, though they likely shaped who I am today.
From age 15 through 19, I was focused on school and trade training. It was also when several sadder things started happening. If I'd had a different childhood, things might have been easier, but I'm not complaining.
Between 1960 and 1967, life was a mix of wonderful, unforgettable moments and plenty of mistakes. I made some errors regarding my wife back then that I ended up paying for later in life.
To make a long story short, my older sister—who is thirteen years my senior—had three kids at the time. Her husband was an alcoholic who beat her and never brought home a paycheck. She managed to support the whole family on her own through her career in skincare. I saw a lot of things growing up, and even as a young man, I realized how brutal life can be with an alcoholic husband who chases after women... especially in an era before everyone was just looking for a way out.
My younger sister is six years younger than me. She was always the high achiever; she finished high school and landed a job in the accounting department at a local hospital, where she’s still working despite being buried in debt.
While things were physically and morally tough for me, she stayed behind at home after I left. She dealt with the daily grind of caring for our parents, who hadn't been doing well for several years.
Eventually, my parents went their separate ways, and my father never saw my sister or her son again. My sister took care of our mother until the very end, and for that, I am deeply grateful.
Kokokica writes the same way she always does; Jamie Clark74 is just a victim of the circumstances he found himself in. If he had ended up in Pakistan, China, or Somalia, you'd see how quickly he would have recovered.
Koka, please, stop making things up.
First I was a conservative, then a Democrat, and then my kids shoved me into a nursing home where I spend my days getting high on narcotics. Apparently, I'm a total loser who never worked a day in his life and, to top it all off, I'm just some "freeloader" living off the system.
Then I posted all the reports here on the forum, and you just flipped the script, claiming I have to take drugs and medication just to keep my insurance active for my pension every year.
Then I explained that I was put on disability because I became physically and mentally incapable back in 1992—starting in 1994 and continuing until 11/11/2006, when I finally head toward retirement.
Now you're back at it again, inventing stories and acting all tough the second someone speaks up!
Once and for all, enough is enough.!
I had spine surgery back in 1972 and remained disabled... I worked until 1992, when I fell ill from stress, which has nothing to do with my spine.
In 1978, I was cleared by a neurologist when I sought a second opinion regarding another surgery to qualify for disability benefits. I had zero issues with the social security office because I met the requirements for disability based on a specific percentage... without needing annual reappraisals.
If I were what you claim I am, why didn't I just "freeload" back then? I didn't. I kept working because I had two kids to put through school and wanted to give them the best possible life.
Instead of retiring, I transitioned into a new role through an internal competition... it had nothing to do with my back. I got the job because I was the best candidate. For one year, I trained scientists in practical tasks, was sent to university for a degree in Safety & Work, and later attended a course on "Asbestos Removal." A few years later, I joined the team handling the computerization system for the entire steel mill, eventually moving into a role as a maintenance controller for electrical work across the whole plant. The steel mill was shrinking from 6,500 workers down to 2,900, and our group was ordered to streamline everything as fast as possible without extra manpower. We were caught in a sandwich between the big bosses and the laborers. Pressure came from every direction. No one wanted to work anymore because people knew they’d be out of a job soon. We were trying to get things organized because the job had become incredibly stressful with too much responsibility, and people—including those in management positions—stopped cooperating because they knew their time was running out. Honestly, most were unnecessary and just waiting for a good payout... while we spent years going above and beyond, working through unpaid lunches and dinners, fixing things after hours for free. And then, one day, my day arrived... STRESS. I took my annual leave and long-term leave, paying for it myself, but I never recovered... I didn't understand what was wrong with me.
So, Koka, I'm done writing anything else to you. You go ahead and do your job however you want... I dealt with stress that I couldn't escape, and it lasted far too long before I started seeking treatment.
I didn't receive a single cent for my spinal injury at work back in 1970... meanwhile, others would play football at home, get hurt, and the very next day show up with friends as witnesses to "report a workplace accident." I was actually rushed from my workstation to the hospital because they thought I was having a heart attack in 1991, right before Christmas. Before that, I used up 10 weeks of vacation, and I never went back to work due to my disability (I'll be honest, I tried for an hour or two for about two weeks), and I suffered from panic attacks and Anxiety. I ended up in a medical center and then a hospital, and eventually, my doctor and my neurologist wouldn't allow me to return to work.
That is the plain truth... so stop making things up and twisting facts. You've written enough nonsense about me over the last three years. Why don't you share your experiences from Canada, where there are plenty of freeloaders bragging about their pensions while they drive around delivering pizzas? We're talking about your little protege, KokaZ.
Goodbye, may God bless you and keep you safe! 🙂 😉 😎
I don't quite get this Aggressive attitude toward anything outside your current treatment plan. Honestly, I regret even responding to your post. You seem to miss the genuine attempt to help someone in need; to you, everything is just an excuse to start a pointless argument.
I also feel bad about replying... but receiving a comment like that feels a bit rude and tactless toward a professional. "I can't imagine spending 15 years of my life on antidepressants and anxiolytics." As for the Psychiatrist treating you, I won't waste my breath because she doesn't cite a single professional study in her profile... Valued Medical represents the profession this woman holds in many ways, as you can see from her link.
Secondly, I mentioned that you aren't following what I'm actually saying or what I'm suffering from... and that's true, otherwise you wouldn't have written this:"If you already have to take pain medication, at least try to help yourself so you don't need to rely on anxiolytics and antidepressants, which if I understood correctly, you're taking mainly for panic attacks".
I’ve written many times on various threads regarding chronic pain, depression, and similar issues, suggesting Clonazepam/Rivotril for Anxiety and pain, or mentioning that a pain clinic might prescribe certain antidepressants for pain management.
So now that I'm just trying to set the record straight, am I being Aggressive again?
I always read your posts with respect and I'll continue to do so, because you write very well and politely. I'm sorry if this post hurt your feelings or made you think I don't value what you wrote, but I really only had two options... either say thank you, or be honest about what I truly believe is the truth.
Sometimes things look different to everyone. If I hadn't consulted so many specialists who all shared the same opinion, I would have changed my Psychiatrist a long time ago.
stormylynx4 Jamie Clark74 said:I can’t imagine spending fifteen years of my life relying on antidepressants and anxiolytics. Honestly, I wouldn't waste a single word on a psychiatrist who doesn't even bother to cite a professional study in their practice. On the other hand, Australia actually gave us one of the leading experts in the field of anxiety and panic attacks. If you search in English for the work of Dr. Claire Weekes, you'll find that her approach to treating panic attacks is still largely used today. If you absolutely have to take medication for pain, at least try to help yourself so you don't end up needing anxiolytics and antidepressants—which, if I understood correctly, you're primarily taking to manage panic attacks. Check out this Highbridge Audio page on passthrough panning: http://www.highbridgeaudio.com/pasthrougpan.html
It looks like we have a fellow quote enthusiast here. Out of curiosity, how many years has it actually been since the first edition of that book by Dr. Claire Weekes was released? Born in 1903, passed away in 1990... yet people are still churning out books on this. Honestly, God knows which editions they're printing now, but they’re always these tiny, cheap little things. People are buying them up like they're some kind of magic cure-all. It feels like someone's just looking for a quick way to make a buck.
How outdated are her techniques and treatments really? When you consider the pace of modern life, how much weight can we actually give to her expertise? She’s just a General Practitioner, after all—not someone who specialized in psychiatry or psychology. Sure, she wrote books, but they weren't strictly medical texts either. Her approach and treatment methods date back to 1962. Back then, there weren't many specialists dedicated solely to mental health, especially when it came to women's issues.
If you look online, you’ll mostly just find endless cycles of reselling, flipping, and all sorts of other schemes. She was honored with the Order of the Queen for being the first woman to earn both her university degree and her doctorate.
There’s really no point in questioning what my psychiatrist posted. She’s done the work and earned her credentials. Honestly, why bother nitpicking? Just look at how much she travels—she’s out there speaking at conferences all over the world.
You really can't compare life and society in the 21st century to how things were between 1960 and 1980. Times have changed significantly. Technology has shifted, and the way computerization impacts the workforce isn't even close to what it was 30 or 40 years ago.
I’ve heard it from just about every other psychiatrist and psychologist I've encountered at the pain clinic: they are genuinely glad to have her as their patient. It makes sense, though. She’s widely recognized as a leading specialist across the entire Asia-Pacific region, including the US and Australia. If she weren't that highly regarded, she wouldn't be sitting on the board for psychiatric examinations, nor would she have spent years heading up the association of psychiatrists for the whole Asian region. She even sits on the national advisory panel that consults the government on medication, mental health policy, and the accreditation of foreign doctors.
It looks like you haven't quite caught up on everything I've shared here. My issues aren't just simple matters; they're pretty complex and tend to ripple out and affect pretty much every part of my life.
I mentioned before that my General Practitioner and my Psychiatrist both work alongside the Pain Clinic. People who haven't dealt with this firsthand might not get it. I’ve spent 20 years navigating pain clinics—two different facilities plus one private practice. I've been through every treatment and diagnostic test available. A lot of the medicine prescribed targets the nervous system for patients dealing with neurological pain following surgery. They often use anti-seizure meds or antidepressants because, for about 30% of people, nothing else works. One of my biggest hurdles is that I simply don't want to be drugged. I want to stay in control of my own life.
Some people still hold onto that old mindset—labeling anyone struggling with mental health as "crazy." They think these individuals just don't know how to help themselves. It’s a tired perspective. Lately, we’ve seen quite a few famous actors dealing with this illness, which seems to have sparked a lot more conversation and debate in the spotlight.
In Australia, we’ve had two top-tier politicians step down from their roles as State Governors. They were incredible leaders, truly. But between the relentless stress and everything else that comes with the job, they just had to resign. It’s a shame they hadn't discovered Dr. Claire Weekes' work. Even when other leading specialists couldn't seem to help, I bet if they had actually read her books or listened to her techniques, they could have recovered. Honestly, I think the specialists themselves should have been reading her. My Psychiatrist! Not many people understand how physical and psychiatric issues intertwine—even doctors at a specialized pain clinic often lack answers. It’s a relatively new approach, only about 25 years old, where a multidisciplinary team—anesthesiologists, neurologists, internists, nurses, physical therapists, psychiatrists, and psychologists—all work alongside the patient.
For what it's worth, I’d recommend five or six specific books and some relaxation techniques for self-hypnosis, though I know those offer little comfort to someone who is truly suffering.
Have I heard "think positive"? Please. I’ve been practicing that for at least 35 years. Hoping for a miracle? It isn't going to happen. Instead, you learn to accept reality and just live. Like my General Practitioner tells me: "There won't be a miracle for you." Honestly, I admire how much you've endured over the years and how long you kept working. Looking through my own 35 years of medical records, my doctor once said, "I have never seen anyone with sciatica or a pinched nerve work 15 months straight without taking sick leave." He also noted they would have been starving if I had stopped working; back before 1974, there wasn't a social safety net like we have now—it was just the Salvation Army or food stamps. For Jamie Clark74, that felt beneath his dignity. I wasn't raised to beg.
I borrowed money just to survive for two months and paid it back in full. And instead of having nine months of rehab, we're talking about a massive 30cm Laminectomy at L5/S1 with fusion performed by an orthopedic surgeon rather than a neurosurgeon. I lied to them and went back to work after just seven weeks without any rehab or physical therapy. I knew immediately the surgery hadn't worked; my leg was still dragging, and I could never bend again. Not from the knee down, and certainly not over a table or sink without pain. But I worked normally, gritting my teeth and crawling on my knees if I needed to reach something. I did attic work too, which meant crawling and lying flat because the joists weren't solid like ours—they were spaced out every 18 inches. That was my second job; my main job was industrial electrical work at a steel mill.
It feels silly even writing this again—let it all go to hell, including me.
Do you really think someone like me *wants* to be sick? You'd understand better if you followed my history. People like me just ache for the days when we were working and actually had the strength to keep going.
Way to go, Italy, at the 2006 Winter Olympics! 🙂 😉 😎
Just a quick tip if you're ever searching for something in American English: just switch your Google settings to American English for searching and displaying results. If you type in what you need, you'll find plenty of pages on the topic, just like this one.
With everything else going on, I completely forgot to mention that this happened at least ten times before I was even ten years old. If I was lucky enough to get an hour to play soccer with the neighborhood kids—which I absolutely loved—my mother would never just call me home. Instead, she’d mess with me... it’s hard to put into words. If I wasn't back exactly on time, there was a punishment: kneeling in a corner on corn kernels, facing the wall, with my arms held out so I couldn't lean. If I moved even an inch, the sentence just got longer. It usually lasted anywhere from thirty to sixty minutes.
I didn't originally intend to write about this, but I want to highlight what children go through and the things they endure.
I'm not sharing this to brag. I'm writing so others can understand why I struggle with the same issues as those who have been through similar things. I want people to know they weren't alone. And I want parents to remember that children aren't tools to be used, punished, or broken—physically or mentally.
That’s really the only reason I write. If my words can help even a few people... well, if someone learns something, finds support, or realizes they need to seek further help, then I'm happy.
Chloe Gray12 said:Which forum are we even talking about? It’s just Jamie Clark74 posting here. How did this become a trending topic?!
29/01/06 Chloe Gray12 wrote; I suggest Jamie Clark74 starts a brand new thread so he can monopolize the whole space. He keeps making endless posts saying the exact same things, plus his signature is ridiculously long with all those links to his blogs and whatnot.
Short memory, isn't it? I actually did everything for you and stripped my avatar and signatures... until I noticed what everyone else was doing—posting nonsense in their signatures in all caps. So, I brought it all back a few days ago.
P.S. If anyone is unhappy and feels this thread is unnecessary or inappropriate, please speak up. I'll be the first to vote to close this as a trending topic and let it fade away naturally.
And apparently, the moderators thought this was the best way to stop me from starting new threads! Best regards, Jamie Clark74
Based on my own experience, I doubt it’s rheumatoid arthritis. That usually shows up on a blood panel, and if it were actually angina or something related to the heart, we would have caught it by now with standard tests. My hunch—and this is just a guess—is that it’s likely osteoarthritis. You get those bone spurs that cause irritation, or maybe a pinched nerve. If it were a nerve issue, the pain would probably be more constant and sharp. To confirm a pinched nerve, you'd need a CT scan, though an MRI is much better if the scan actually picks something up. The symptoms described point more toward osteoarthritis.
Symptoms: - Pain in the neck, back, ribs, and occasionally the muscles. It fluctuates; some days it's just the neck, sometimes just the ribs, and other times it's everything or nothing at all. - The pain spikes during sudden movements, but once things settle down, there's almost no pain at all.
My aunt and uncle ran a massive operation after hours making Christmas jewelry. It was sold all over the US, and we even shipped it across the borders. We worked almost year-round; my mom would help out during the day, and I’d jump in right after school.
The process involved cutting glass of various thicknesses over a flame and sealing it... I handled that part. My uncle would heat the pieces, blow them to create spheres, and we also made other ornaments like tree toppers, little birds, and hollow beads. Once they were blown, my job was to trim the excess from the stems. Then my mom would dip them and work them in liquid while wearing gloves to silver them.
It went on forever. I still remember my first night working—it was a Saturday night heading into Sunday. We drank strong coffee to stay awake, and I had my very first cigarette, just to see what it was like!
I spent many nights working instead of going to school. Is Jamie Clark74 smart enough to learn from that? It was such a mistake on my parents' part—not just working through the night, but actually writing fake excuse notes to the school saying I was sick. Though, to be fair, I *was* exhausted. At the time, it didn't feel like an issue, but looking back, it really hit me much later... it was a rough start, no matter how hard-working you are.
I also helped my mom move smaller batches, sometimes stacking boxes as high as a freight truck to get them onto the train for shipping to where they were ordered.
With every passing day, my skills and experience just kept growing. That kind of work continued right up until I officially started my own trade.
I found out later that we had actually borrowed money from my aunt to build our house, and we used the profits from this business to pay it back.
I suppose I gained a lot of diverse knowledge while other kids and teenagers were out just messing around and having fun.
Each brick weighed about 5.5 pounds... I lost count, but I probably lugged at least 100,000 of them around while we were building houses in our neighborhood during my early teens. Back when we lived near the cemetery, my dad—bless him—organized it so that every day after school, I’d head out to work. I was hauling bricks, mixing mortar, and doing all sorts of manual labor. In one of the houses we worked on, they kept cows, so my sweat equity actually paid for the milk, potatoes, and cabbage. I don't recall ever getting pocket money for a movie; everything went toward groceries or buying my schoolbooks.
The only saving grace was my older sister. She had a soft spot for me and would occasionally slip a few bucks into my pocket so I could catch a film. That lasted until I turned 15 and started earning my own way.
I used to work straight through until 9:00 PM, then come home to finish homework or copy someone else's assignment just to stay afloat. There were days I’d actually nod off right there in class from sheer exhaustion. But I never complained. Honestly, I was just proud whenever my dad praised how hard I was working.
One thing I should mention: even after his regular job, my dad always spent his evenings at home making custom orthopedic shoes for people in need.
As for the garden, that was a constant thing for us. Even after we moved, we had a plot over by the old neighborhood where all three of us would work together before my father took over the maintenance himself. He’d spend his evenings working on the land, walking home from the outskirts of town, and then settling back in to work on those shoes. Since my mom didn't work outside the house, things weren't exactly easy financially, despite how much we put in.
I remember when I was 13, we started digging at the construction site. We needed a basement since we were built on a hill, and we needed water. One Saturday, my dad and I dug down about six or seven feet, and within two days, we hit a well. We had more than enough water to last the entire build.
Once the basement was done and the foundations were set, autumn rolled in... which meant a change of pace. My "new job" season began, which mostly involved staying warm and enjoying good company at my aunt and uncle's place.
It took me years to finally wrap my head around this: in our early years and childhood, we aren't just growing up—we're being shaped. Our nature is passed down through our genes, sure, but the way our parents raise us leaves a permanent mark. Those early influences stay with us for the rest of our lives.
It’s vital that I revisit my past and my childhood. That’s where all my struggles first took root, and it’s exactly why I’m facing this whole treatment process now in my fifties.
The following excerpts are from: Jamie Clark74: My childhood under communism.
1945-1947 Times were incredibly tough back then. So many people lost their parents and their homes all at once. I still remember how our family—even though we didn't exactly have much space ourselves—took in "war orphans" for about two years. They were around my age. We did that until things finally stabilized and the government opened up dedicated shelters for everyone affected by the war.
I still remember my sister telling me stories about what life was like during the war—all those things they had to surgically remove. Once the war finally ended, she was among the first wave of young people out there working alongside the military to build up the railroads and the interstate highway system. I remember it clearly—every single time she came back, she’d show up with a new stack of trophies and awards from her races. She was an American track and field champion.
When she finally returned, she decided to learn a trade. She trained in upper shoe stitching, just like the leather production side of things.
It’s starting to feel like those old days again... I remember my father working at an orthopedic factory, making prosthetics and custom footwear for people with disabilities. I remember back when we lived on Vocarska, he was actually chosen to head up the planning and coordinate the volunteer work for the new community center.
I remember being right there in the trenches, hauling bricks whenever I could. I even have photos of myself perched on a ladder, passing tiles down the line to the next guy.
I still remember my school days over on Babunicev ulica, and that plot of land the government handed us in the neighborhood... that’s where my early days of working in the garden began. It always went like this: while everyone else was running around kicking a soccer ball, I’d be out in that massive garden, turning the soil or pulling weeds. To be honest, there were plenty of times when Mom and Dad weren't looking and I'd just sit there crying, feeling pretty miserable because I couldn't join in the games.
Back when we lived over on Vocarska, we actually had this little shared space with our neighbors where we’d raise a couple of pigs, along with some rabbits and pigeons. It was one of those times where you just made do with what you had—you figured out how to scrape by, and that’s exactly what you ate.
I know not everyone was that driven—some were true gentlemen—but that sense of resourcefulness definitely runs in my family. It comes from my father. He had a rough road in life, starting his trade at just twelve years old. He’d be up at 4:00 AM to get everything ready at the shop, then spend the rest of the day working until dark just to master the craft. Back in the day, his father actually had to pay the handyman with 200kg of grain and two pigs every single year. That’s just how things used to be.
What am I even getting at here? I just wanted to show that life after the war was a real struggle, though everyone found their own way to get through it.
I still remember how we were raised back in the day. We used to address everyone as Mr. or Mrs., and when it came to the older, more prominent ladies, we’d show our respect by saying, "I kiss your hands." That was a long time ago—way back. We used to live in a neighborhood like Beverly Hills, right under the estate of Countess Draskovic. We actually had a place on the ground floor of her lover's villa—he was Mate Grkovic, a well-known stage actor.
Look, I’ve said it before: nobody had an easy childhood. We all carry our own baggage. But let’s be honest—not everyone had to fight the same battles I did. I’m not complaining, but there are times I wish I’d had a more typical childhood—instead of being out on construction sites and working in the garden since I was seven. Even after we moved over to the cemetery area and had that other construction site near our old place in Beverly Hills, my life didn't really change much. I was still hauling bricks at the job sites, and we still had our garden back in the hills—it just meant a much longer walk. We actually tried building a house ourselves for a little while. We never quite got it finished, though—we just ran out of cash, and my dad couldn't get a loan approved.
When was the last time you actually thought back to your childhood?
Man, I love this city. In the summer, I just walk around barefoot. Stuck in some hot tar. Wish me luck. I'm walking on my toes now, but the stinging sensation is actually getting worse.
I head for cover and my legs just sink under the water... oh God. To the one who brings both the sunshine and the rain—this was it. Maybe a little too much. Have some pity for us little guys.
My mind wanders back to my childhood in the Midwest, when I was just a small kid frequently taking the school bus. It used to be sweltering, but right across the street from my house was the Ilovo River. I was tiny, but everyone always called me "Joe’s hardworking son."
The shovel was bigger than I was, but I wasn't called Joe’s son for nothing. I’d plunge that shovel into the river and haul small loads of sand up, tossing them over my head onto the first step... sometimes half would splash back into the river... but Jamie Clark74 was persistent. I spent hours tossing sand onto those three steps before finally piling it at the top where we’d sell it by the cubic yard.
I think I was the first kid in school to actually understand what a cubic yard was. When the teacher asked, I just said, "Two mornings at the river equals that much." Everyone laughed at Joe’s son... but then I showed them with my two little steps how big the pile should be... until it was almost head-high. Everyone cheered.
I remember my grandfather—a small, older man with glasses and his cherished family Bibles. We never worked on Sundays. I had to sit and listen to him read Scripture. Once lunch was served, even if there was room at the big table, we kids under sixteen had our own little table and chairs. That was our spot.
I remember during that first year, tears were streaming into my plate while I ate, and my sister ran off to the barn and hid until evening.
Years later, I was working like a farmhand, from sunrise to sunset. I’d lead the cattle to pasture, watching the cows while Grandfather plowed the fields. Grandfather used to call me William after the Prussian Emperor. He was a sharp man who spoke four languages... he moved here all the way from the suburbs of Chicago and married a woman from a local family, and they ended up having thirteen children. Grandfather was a highly educated man, a real scholar, and I learned so much from him.
I remember when he passed away; I didn't attend the funeral. My father went alone. The following summer, we were all sitting at the large dining table, but Aunt Bozena, still young then, hauled the table and chairs into the barn. She declared that as long as she was alive, no one would eat at "Grandfather's chairs" ever again.
But sometimes I think about those chairs and that table. All thirteen of us grew up eating at them, because that’s just how things were back then.
I know it doesn't rhyme, but it feels right to say it. As I write this, tears are welling up thinking about the Midwest, the river... the sand, and my grandfather. I get a lump in my throat remembering that little kids' table, sitting just a few inches off the floor.
If I’d had the chance to write this from the start, this whole thread wouldn't be such a mess. It’s all tangled up now. Somewhere in the middle, if you try to read through it, it’s hard to even tell what the main topic is.
There are links here pointing back to previous posts where people accused me of being a "slacker" who never worked and just made up all my illnesses.
Regarding the thread about Jamie Clark74: I deal with plenty of health issues, but I am certainly no "slacker." I’ve provided all the original documentation, including specialist letters, X-rays, MRIs, and ultrasound results.
Let’s set aside my 36-year struggle with chronic pain and other ailments for a moment, as well as my two spinal surgeries—specifically the Laminectomy and stenosis treatments.
What actually pushed me into disability retirement—which ends this year since I'll be turning 65 and transitioning to standard retirement—were the following medical events.
I’ll start with what happened back in 1991-1992, when three different psychiatrists diagnosed me with Major Depressive Disorder, panic attacks, anxiety, agoraphobia, and obsessive personality traits.
There are real reasons behind all those issues. Sometimes they build up over years without us even realizing it.
In my case, the depression and panic attacks started because of a job that demanded way too much. I actually complained about the workload, but the steel mill was going through massive layoffs, shrinking from 6,500 employees down to 2,900. I was part of the group saddled with heavy responsibilities; management basically told us, "You’re the group staying on, so it’s up to you to fix the system and make it work."
Before I got sick, I didn't realize anything was wrong. But eventually, I lost the strength to even get out of bed. Then came the nights where I couldn't sleep at all; I'd sit in the living room having panic attacks, wondering whether to call 911 because my blood pressure was spiking and my heart rate was hitting 120-140 beats per minute. I used my four weeks of annual leave, went back to work, felt even worse, and ended up taking six weeks of leave. When I finally returned, I was sent home from the medical center because they thought I was having a heart attack and rushed me to the hospital. My primary care doctor gave me everything needed to prevent a cardiac event, but the tests came back clear. That was the first time anyone suggested it might actually be anxiety.
Until I saw a Neurologist and a psychiatrist, I didn't believe anyone when they said my problems were "nerve-related," as we unrefined folks say. I mean, who actually wants to be labeled mentally ill?
That was back in 1991. I filed a claim with the company for workplace stress and began treatment. A visiting Neurologist confirmed the stress was the issue and referred me to a psychiatrist who visited every two weeks. Based on my symptoms and the DSM-IV criteria, he made the diagnosis, which was later confirmed by two other psychiatrists.
I saw the psychiatrist every two weeks, making trips to Adelaide and back. We eventually moved to Adelaide in 1994. Back in 1992, while driving toward Adelaide at night, a car swerved into our lane because the driver fell asleep. I barely avoided a collision, though the side of our car was totaled. Luckily, no one was hurt. That incident really drove home the idea that after 25 years in one place, we should move to a major city like Adelaide.497 miles It was tough leaving our son behind right as he was starting his apprenticeship and technical school. We helped him get settled into a two-bedroom apartment, furnished it, and paid his rent for the first six months. Since he was earning a wage, he could manage the rest. He spent four years working 12-hour days between his trade and school to earn two certifications: electrician and instrument mechanic, eventually becoming a certified electronics technician.
1992 was also incredibly stressful because my older son was struggling with his own "stress" issues. He worked out in the desert for two or three weeks at a time before coming home for a week. He had two kids and was reaching his breaking point. His wife was pregnant again, and after nine years of marriage, things hit a crisis point. It wasn't an affair or anything; it was the overwhelming pressure of debt and raising three children. One morning, we got a phone call from him saying he was going to kill himself and saw no way out. We had just returned from Adelaide the night before, so we immediately called his wife and told them both to wait so we could meet them at 5:00 AM.
Basically, my son headed out for field work, leaving us to stay with my daughter-in-law for a few days to help her through the worst of it. He moved in with a single colleague he was working with, and since the house was sold, we did everything we could to help her get settled into a rental. We stay in close contact and help out whenever it's possible. It's funny how when things go wrong, they all hit at once. It’s been 14 years now; she’s still raising the kids on her own. My son pays steady, reliable child support. He remarried about three years later—he's 43 now—and doesn't have any more children.
To top it all off, he had an accident at work that broke and damaged his cervical vertebrae. He went through three surgeries and is now permanently disabled. He has a morphine pump implanted; thankfully, he isn't in constant pain, but he'll need a new pump installed every five years because the batteries only last that long. Every six or seven weeks, they check the pump's status via computer and refill the morphine.
Brian Ramos8 said:Hey there! I don't have any specific advice for you, I just wanted to say don't let those vultures on this forum get to you. They’re just waiting for a chance to tear someone down and mess with their head... there are some truly toxic people in here. Hang in there and just ignore them; they'll only end up upsetting you. Good luck!
Thanks for the support and for all the emails. Over the last few weeks, I've been feeling much better—as the saying goes!
8/2/06 Every two weeks, I have a scheduled visit with my primary care physician—appointments that were actually set up a year in advance. Sometimes I need extra visits for specific issues too. Every 14 days, I also need a testosterone injection, specifically Sustanon 250,1ml. For the first year, my wife used to handle them, but it wasn't easy for her. The injections are thick and tough to push through, so now her fingers are sore and swollen from arthritis; she’ll eventually need joint replacement surgery. Because of that, I have to go to the doctor for the shots now. Between all the other prescriptions and referrals, I usually see him at least once a month... sometimes even more often.
We live in a "Retirement Village" here, and in nine years, he's been my third primary doctor. I had trouble with the first one, and he ended up retiring. I saw the second one for years until he started charging me an extra $5-$10 out of pocket for every single visit. The local private practice here has seven doctors. I actually asked the receptionist if there was anyone who didn't charge retirees extra (I knew there was someone, but they weren't taking new patients), so I switched to my current doctor. He's about 35 or 40, originally from Australia, his father is a doctor named Grik, and his mother was a Naturopath.
He is very serious about his work and truly goes above and beyond for his patients; nothing is too much trouble for him. I have a lot of respect for him, just as he has for me. We spent one Saturday afternoon, maybe three or four hours, just going over everything. I gave him my entire medical history and all my past reports printed out so he’d know exactly what he was dealing with... it was a good way to get to know each other.
I can honestly say, much like with my psychiatrist, I’m very happy to have quality care and a doctor I can actually talk to. It’s useless to have a bunch of specialists who only see you two or four times a year; at the end of the day, it falls on the primary doctor to coordinate everything based on those specialists' advice.
He and I have reviewed my medication list several times, and what I'm currently taking is really the bare minimum. We've discussed "alternative natural remedies," and even though he's quite open to alternative medicine because his mother was a Naturopath, he doesn't think it would be wise to mix one or two herbal supplements with my current regimen, given how complex my situation is.
I'm very thankful that my liver and kidneys are in great shape. My stomach is a different story, though, since the medications affect digestion. There isn't a drug without side effects or complications; I certainly feel them, but it is what it is.
People always wonder how I can tolerate NSAIDs and anti-inflammatories after 36 years. Without them, I can barely move after three or four days. I know they cause digestive issues, so I occasionally balance things out with some suppositories... then back to Celebrex capsules.
If I only had one or two issues, I’d try to treat them with natural medicine if possible. But with everything I'm dealing with, there isn't really an "alternative" way to do this. And even if there were, I wouldn't be able to afford it. Besides, many people don't realize that plenty of modern medicines are derived from natural products anyway.
I wrote all this yesterday, and I'm not sure what happened to the forum. Usually, I type everything up in Word first before posting... Until next time 😉 🙂 😎
MangoAnanas said:If trying 20 different medications hasn't worked, have you ever considered ECT?
Well, Honestly, Jamie Clark74 and I are both wondering if you've looked into ECT. I know someone who struggled with depression for years, cycling through endless therapies and antidepressants, but things only really started looking up after she tried ECT.
So, as promised, I had my psychiatrist appointment today. It’s always the same routine: first, we have a little chat about family matters, then an update on how my wife, Verica, is doing, and then we spend the remaining 40 minutes strictly on my own issues and questions. That's just how it goes. I brought up this forum and the writing, along with the trouble that comes when I try to tell the truth... my wife actually said, "I tell him he shouldn't write and air his problems; people should see what others keep hidden and how they call him a liar or a troublemaker."
Originally, it was actually the psychiatrist and the pain clinic's idea for me to start writing—to keep a journal while continuing my work, or at least something similar since I can't handle my old job anymore. They suggested it might help me transition into something like a community college or university course for seniors... which would be ideal if I could just treat it as a {{hobby}}. I managed to stick with it for about 18 months before the pain and restlessness became too much to handle.
I first saw a psychiatrist back in March 1992. I was the first one in, and here I am, 14 years later, still needing her.
We went over all the antidepressants I've taken, why we switched them, and the reasoning behind it. Some were specifically requested by the pain clinic to see if they might help manage the pain or affect the nervous system. Over time, we phased out everything the clinic suggested, and now I'm settled on Laxapro, which has its ups and the downs.
We talked about my panic attacks, which still happen today, and the constant anxiety that's always there... though I manage it somewhat with Rohypnol or Clonezapena. I don't mind spending the money, usually hovering between 2-3mg depending on how I feel. If I drop below that, my behavior changes immediately; my wife notices right away and asks if I skipped a dose or just forgot.
About a year ago, I tried to slowly taper off my antidepressant and Rohypnol, which led to a very unpleasant situation. I won't make that mistake again. I've successfully tapered off antidepressants many times before when switching types, but nothing like that experience. Since then, I gave my word to my doctor that I wouldn't "experiment" with my dosage anymore.
Anyway, we reviewed my medication list again today, and I asked about ECT, though I couldn't quite remember what her previous answer was. She told me that patients who don't respond, or respond very poorly, to antidepressants are extremely rare cases for an ENT... and that in her 14 years of private practice—since she moved from state-run facilities—she has only seen three cases involving ECT.
In any case, I actually respond quite well to my current meds, but we changed them frequently at the request of various pain clinics. We aren't changing anything else now. I'm staying put, even though she thinks I was best on Paroxetine, but I wanted to switch after the last recommendation from the pain clinic. Besides, given my diagnosis of Arachnoiditis and having undergone two spinal surgeries, ECT isn't even on the table for me... the risk of nerve damage is just too high.
So, that's where I am. Other people on the forum might think I'm taking too many pills, but I only take what's necessary, and I'm not even using anything for the actual pain yet... because Tylenol and Advil aren't strong enough, but they're enough to save my stomach from the heavier stuff.
Sorry for the long post, but I couldn't just give a brief answer; everything is so interconnected. As you can see in the following link:
Finally caught some sleep. After pulling a 60-hour marathon without rest, I managed to get seven hours in after seeing my psychiatrist this morning.
Let's circle back to my visit to the orthopedist yesterday. Just to refresh your memory:
Note for QEH outpatient Orthopedics; QEH UR No:603835
I have some complaints I need to share. Please take a look at this: my X-rays, scans, ultrasounds, and a full list of the steroid injections I’ve had over the last 18 months.
Right wrist. Dealing with pain in both my right and left elbows lately. Dealing with issues in both shoulders. Regarding the knees—it's the same situation as I mentioned before. Bilateral plantar fasciitis. I’ve been dealing with it on my right foot for 37 years, and the left side for about 20. I've been spending a massive amount of time on ladders and kneeling lately. It’s definitely taking its toll.
I’ve been dealing with pins and needles in both my arms and fingers lately. I've attached the medical reports here for anyone who wants to take a look. Cervical degeneration at C5/6 and C6/7. ======= At the doctor's office; William, we’ve only got 20 minutes left and I see you have quite a lot on your plate. It’s good that you have everything prepared and written down. I'm addressing a junior doctor currently in training to become an orthopedist. Here we have a textbook case where everything is misaligned due to years of wear and tear. We aren't going to focus on the Lumbar section of the spine; that's a task for Professor X. William, are the symptoms still the same as before? And have you started physical therapy yet? I noticed the doctor ordered it about a month ago.
I had to strip down my shirt for the exam... this younger doctor is helping me out, but things got a little awkward. He was checking all my joints for any signs of dislocation and kept asking me to move my hands toward him and away from him. Hm. To comment on what William said—you really are quite strong, there aren't any issues with your muscles. He just keeps checking my head movements too... I'm staying pretty still. You’re going to need an MRI for your cervical spine. Based on that last CT scan, it looks like there's some significant stuff going on that could be compressing your nerves whenever you lie down. What’s hitting you harder when you're horizontal—is it numbness in your arms or more of a shoulder pain? Also, which elbow is giving you more trouble? You'll need an MRI for that right shoulder too. I’m also going to send you over to physical therapy to see what kind of progress we can actually make, though I won't promise miracles. I don't examine feet or legs... actually, anything below the waist. You'll need to see a different specialist. We might have to go ahead with surgery on my right shoulder, but that really depends on what shows up on the MRI—an ultrasound only picks up external muscle issues. When I was heading out, the doctor mentioned to his junior associate that despite how much I struggle to walk, I still have more muscle strength than a high school kid who hits the gym regularly. I can't help but feel a bit ridiculous, but honestly, it doesn't matter if it's intense pain or just weak muscles. It all hurts the same.
Hey Doc... I’ve decided I’m done with the cutting. Honestly, I'd rather just deal with the pain than have things get any worse. After going through two spinal surgeries, I've definitely learned my lesson the hard way. Had my MRI on February 14th, 2006, and saw the orthopedist on March 6th.