This night as I ponder whether and how much to take of my new medicine Risperidol, I languish in thirst. It has been two days since I have been released from a Mental Hospital, the profiteering version of the concentration camp, forcibly put there for no reason but my status as a mental patient after going to a psychiatrist's office where I incurred the "concern" of the doctor by admitting that I felt "so-so". The scope of the disregard for my well-being and the disgrace withwhich I was treated will now be related:

I was thirsty when I went to the Northcoast Behavioral Health building, a place where I had been lulled into feeling safe, and perhaps rightly, should be safe because it is where I chose to attend counseling for Post Traumatic Stress. They do not even allow the name of this malady to appear as my treatment point on hospital admittance forms. Instead, after being abducted and deposited in an emergency room by five cops and firemen, another psychiatrist looked at me and pronounced me schizophrenic. I have never been diagnosed as schizophrenic, but all psyche personnel want patients to be schizophrenic. I found out why-- Insurance will only compensate a hospital for this conjectural illness and not a PTS case. Indeed my insistence that I had trauma was frequently belittled, though I have a scar on my scrotum that says I have had considerable trauma to my person. I had driven to the building after downing a banana and was planning to get a meal and drink when I left. I think I appeared distracted. I had not had any perceptible problems recently of note. I was just due to be reeled in and invaded by the most pernicious and pitiless pig system in America, that which is above law and without restraint. To them I am a trouble maker no matter what I say or do. Evidence of free thought is seized upon-- and there is no defense.

I was set up and betrayed by the psychiatrists-- the one I had chosen for her description as "compassionate" and the diabolical one into whose authority I was placed by her in the hospital, Dr. Nathan and Wilkes respectively. I am not sure why I didn't bolt when I had the chance... I guess I really was seeking professional help. Dr. Nathan ushered me out of her office into the waiting room saying she didn't want calls to, supposedly, my relatives- actually the authorities- to upset me. I sat there for some time waiting for her to reemerge, knowing that I had come off wrong and that if I didn’t get back down to my car and jet, I was about to relive the violation of hospitalization I had experienced three times before.

Consumers all live in abject fear of this recourse of psychiatry. We are taught to fear our very selves. I maintain defiance and shelter my spirit, but this is a constant taxation. The agency of the Mental Health Mafia includes the consumers many of whom have been scared into roles of rats who pose as peers to those of us with integrity, lending a dubious ear in the lonely world of the afflicted.

People who have had their lives collapse from mental stressors seek safe environments. The psyches provide a simulated safe environment. In this holograph, control is established. Under the guise of care the drastic reality of behavior modification through the forced insertion of poison needles is introduced. Hospitalization is perfected euthanasia, completed by aspects of robbing the money and spirit before the inevitable. It is to such an extent that reasonably healthy persons are reduced to invalids, as I witnessed firsthand over five days at South Point "Hospital". People are routinely drugged to immobility and force-fed food. All the while blood is drawn for barely plausible reasons from people at incredible excess. I was detained in a hallway for these days with no room to walk among such cases-- a Korean War veteran who repeatedly remarked "they're trying to kill me", "they're taking too much of my blood." And so they were. The hospital employed an orderly with a Transylvanian accent chillingly attentive to his blood extraction duties. At the front desk, four wheelchair bound dying and stupefied patients were perpetually parked. A number of patients were drugged to immobility so as to urinate on the premises all the time. I wrote a "three day letter" but Dr. Wilkes didn't read it. He told me it was indicative of my overcomplicated thinking and faulty reasoning because it was three full pages and not "I request to leave the hospital". I had voluntarily signed myself in. Not being involuntarily admitted in contrast, a hearing and representation was forthcoming. But when I questioned the lizard like assistant to the psychiatrist whether I was there voluntarily or involuntarily she said the latter, elaborating that the police had brought me. Thus the guilt was conjured--ex post facto.

My privacy was in constant duress from staff, who could present themselves for a contrived reason and disturb my sleep or activity any time and the other patients, who could verbally assault you at every turn, and in any combination of their number. The dementia and desperation of these peers was the featured reality, incessantly intruding. My cellmate was the most aggressive and perplexing presence in the ward. I made common cause with him and transmuted rage into insight and humor, but for which I would have been preyed upon.

Why was I there? The hospital social workers and psychiatrists and nurses seized upon this question at every encounter. I had arrived on a gurney surrounded by cops, off a pinkslip. That I had done nothing to deserve this entourage was disbelieved. I had taken care not to answer affirmatively that I had thoughts of hurting myself or others. That is an automatic ticket to erasure. Still, this was my lot. No question could be answered in earnest or at any length without an onslaught of "intervention". Only once, in horror, did I break into convulsive sobs. The nearest nurse burst in and demanded to know if I was "hearing voices."

As I write I think as I often do about Andra, my love who I lost to suicide four years ago. She killed herself promptly after being put in an asylum precisely like this. In exasperation with her own pain of mind, after rebuking me for allowing myself to have been hospitalized the last time, she finally did allow the doctors to work their whiles. She was drugged, indoctrinated and released, into the outside world of cold. Her doctor went on vacation. She made up her mind to die.

They seize upon the meditation of suicide and aggression. They ostensibly try to remedy it. But it is obvious that their motivation is not life affirmative-- by the hospital environment and by the feel of their medications. The real motive is to deal with a person they want dead because the person is a beacon for light, and this society they protect feeds off of darkness. INSTEAD OF MURDERING THEM, THEY MAKE THEM KILL THEMSELVES. They claim it was the unfortunate result of illness taking its course. They've been getting away with it up until now. The theme of the psyche ward is craziness. But they don't cure nothing. They try to drive you crazy. They want you to go crackers. They chemically confuse the brain and present a menagerie of bedlam. You are allowed only a life of mundane nondeviation, in their care as well as on your own after training is complete.

Andra is why I went to the hospital. I carry a vial of her hair as a wand. When I went to the office of NorthCoast I unpocketed it and twirled it in my hand as I recited the nonevents of my mental state to Erika Nathan. She was troubled by this-- hadn't I stopped thinking of her? I waved my wand at Nathan and professed my innocence. Because I am INNOCENT more than anything, and she is a fuck pig with blood on her hands if anything. And she surrounded me with officers of the law who regarded the tube, which housed the follicles from a head driven dead by their ilk as a dangerous item. And my only protest, being at the behest of their confiscation of it, as the picture of mania.

The cognizance of the insidious conspiracy to silence the light is a danger to them. My freedom of thought will not be terminal to me but to them.

It is 4:00 AM now, and I am still thirsty. Will I flick a pill of poison into my throat along with water presently as I try to sleep? That is a secret I trust with no one.


Raymond said...

I hate to say it, but you sound a little bit like a medicated Lewis Lampan.

Raymond said...

I hate to say it, but you sound a little bit like a medicated Lewis Lampan.