Archive for June, 2012


This Moment IS

The staff on the ward have found my blog, without me giving them the address but saying angrily a few times that I was going to blog.  The ward manager collared me twice, once quite softly and the second time in a way which made me feel they wanted to take my computer and my leave away.  The second time she approached me with 2 other female staff members and in public.  She said she wanted to talk about my use of my computer on the ward.  I said it was music and that I have no internet connection on the ward.  She asked me quite crossly where I wrote my blog and how I wrote it and I pointed out that I have 5 1/2 hours total off the ward and I go where I can get a connection and that I have the same freedoms as everyone else in that time.  They said they did not like having their names associated with certain things.  I said that I have things associated with my name which I don’t like also, and that they were free to write or comment.  It was probably in that context that she said that it was a matter of confidentiality, but I took it to mean that she was saying I was breaking a duty of confidentiality which I was quick to point out that I do not have but that they do.  They talked about seeking advice.  I said OK.  I hope if and when they do the outcome will make a big difference in society and for people who are held against their wishes and with other forms of abuse, harassment and bullying thrown in.

This is good.

They saw me coming towards the office/ward exit this afternoon and it seemed to me they deliberately closed the office door and I stood outside knocking with them ignoring me.  This happens often.  The staff last night were calling people rude.  I’m not sure who they meant.  At the time it seemed it was obvious they meant me.

2 nights ago a woman had 2 separate instances of being forcibly medicated.  Hefty men called and involved, on an all-female ward.  If anyone knows how that is appropriate I would appreciate the feedback through comments.  She said they had hurt her hand and it was all swollen and red.  I know I have been there, in London.  It took 6 months for my hand to stop hurting, and the man doing it at the time, when I said he was hurting me, said ‘well, you will learn your lesson, then, won’t you?’  I was never contemptuous of my own life until I felt betrayed by the church and came under the psychiatric services.

We appear to have a large degree of revolt and anarchy on the ward at the moment.  Everyone is angry and the staff are, to my mind, often unprofessional.  Everyone knows what is happening but the staff say nothing, and I think most of us patients know they know more than they are allowing us to be party to and that, if we were allowed to be party to the staff’s knowledge of what everyone knows, a lot of things might be called into question.  Just a thought.

This blog is exactly what it says in the title, that and nothing else – the thoughts and observations of a certified nut.  Why would anyone want to seek advice over that?

Did I say that I had had a bad week as a vegan last week?  I was tempted again earlier this week but I talked myself through it.  I went through the ‘so I’ll feel guilty’ bit and realised afresh that it is about the suffering or death or utilisation of an animal in a way which is not ideal.  I decided we are different from most of the animal world in that we have a conscience and can think, philosophise and moralise about our behaviour.  I had tears in my eyes as I thought it through.  I was happy about that.  It is about the animal and about me, living according to my light.

Jesus is wonderful and I love Him.  He ate fish.  I’m not sure how to harmonise that.  It is said that the prophets were vegetarian and that the Essenes were also.  And I believe it is right not to use animals.  So I can’t deal with the Jesus and fish thing – not at all, in that context.  I think I was taught at Bible College that John the Baptist was an Essene.  So while they might have said ‘but Jesus ate fish so it isn’t wrong’, why would John the Baptist have lived by a higher morality?  We were told that when it says JTB ate locusts, it actually means the locust bean, and not the insect.

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More Tales from the Redwoods

My mind is all jumbled today, it has been pretty packed with activities and observations.

The smoking square is right outside my bedroom and people raise their voices at my radio, even though it isn’t loud.  It makes concentration hard.  Blow it, it makes just listening hard.

I had a review today.  I asked them to decrease what they have been giving me for anxiety because I am walking around feeling the same as I used to when I was on sleeping medication every night in London.

They have left my leave as it is, 1 x 4 hours to break up and use as I want, plus 3 x 1/2 hour for local shops etc.

They also told me they wanted to increase my olansapine.  We got into a heated discussion about that.  They talked about ideas that I was being harassed, and I pointed out that they didn’t live with me and why were they so insistent on calling it ideas instead of accepting it as reality.  Dr Khan, the SHO who was conducting proceedings today although Dr Fahy was there, asked why I thought I was the only person being harassed and I said I didn’t, but he insisted that I had said that, and I said I hadn’t and insisted that I didn’t think that.  He asked why I thought I was so important that this could be happening to me, and I said he was being rude and asked him why he thought I was so unimportant that it couldn’t be.  He asked who I thought was doing it and I said how could I know if it was organised crime.  He asked me why I thought they were doing it which, as all illegitimate and out of bounds questions do, left me feeling hit in the head, and I said I didn’t know and that what mattered was that it was happening, not why.

Dr Fahy, or Dr Khan (I can’t remember now) said they were also worried about the level and degree of distress it was causing to me and people around me and she tried to fnish her sentence before I came back at that, which I insisted on doing, and I pointed out that the distress comes from other people before it comes from me, that if it were not started from others I would be happy. I didn’t get the opportunity I wanted to say that the degree of distress is because they always handle me like this and that they were giving me no hope or protection for the future.  But afterwards I wondered what they thought was the maximum degree of distress allowable in my circumstances.

I did my laundry this afternoon.  I went to the office to ask someone to unlock the door for me so I could get it out.  Jess was there with a big fluffy bear slipper or something.  They didn’t even look in my direction as I knocked, but she started touching the slipper or whatever it was in what, on a real animal, might have been its private parts.  On purpose, it looked like, and continued to not acknowledge me.  When she came to the door she had a really strange smile on her face.  I later remembered when Tommy Boyd had talked about licking the underparts of a badger, I think he said, to cure a headache.  That people used to do it and it worked.  He used to say that he wondered how people first got the idea.  Or was it a beaver?  The first time I heard him refer to the badger or beaver was the night after I had broken down in sobs, years ago, waiting for the phone to pick up the other end, or something, phoning someone else (I don’t have his private number), and the next day he played something which sounded like me sobbing the previous night and asked people to guess what it was.  Someone said it sounded like a woman crying, but he later declared it to be the sound of a badger or beaver.  I can’t remember if anyone got it.

He also played this game with Allison Ferns with the Queen song, ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’, where he kept stopping it as it was building up and Allison was getting frustrated.  I remembered that after catching some of the Steve Wright show this afternoon on Radio 2 and thinking that they were deliberately reproducing the action of dopamine or seratonin blockers, verbally, bringing it up to interest level then smashing it down so I, at least, was not able to maintain the interest and the thought that came from it.  It made me angry.  It was the first time I had thought of what they were doing in that way, as reproducing the action of dopamine and seratonin blockers.

While they are playing these coy, or not so coy, games, a programme is on Radio 4 tomorrow at 9pm called ‘All In the Mind’, which is going to look at the ‘fact’, so they say, that between five and seven people die every week under a mental health section.  This is not something to play with.  It isn’t fair.  I’ve taken every baseball game position possible to ask for help or if I can help, over the years, and I’m now wondering why.

AOL is featuring a story of the queen with a bloodshot eye, and a piece of film where Prince Philip first looks at the camera then looks into his binoculars.  I’m not sure if there is any actual connection with the fact that Tommy Boyd has one eye he can’t see much out of because he said he was bitten by a dolphin, I think.

Being a write bloody bitch is hard.

Mine is not to reason why
Mine is but to write or die

Or risk trying to explore these things in a real face to face

Or try to retrieve any chance of a relationship buried under my cowardice and shit.

One woman has been on this acute ward for about a year.  Another for two.  So they have said.

A lookalike of a new patient, who is in turn a lookalike of Dorothy Shearman, came on Come Dine With Me this afternoon.  Everyone reacted, silently.  We are afraid to be the first to say anything in case no one else joins us.

I really think the drugs companies and the psychiatrists are knowingly dependent on each other, to some extent, for their living and have no wish to rock the boat with real reality.  The obviousness of it is so filling my mind with words to speak of it that I can only reduce it down to ‘disgusting’.  Love covers everything except organised abuse and agreed cowardice.

These places are awful.  They see the expression of fear or anger or like emotions as things demanding to be medicated, not as an opening to a meaningful conversation with another human being.  Very roudy lady on the ward at the moment.  Threw a few things around, was screaming last night.  She has my sympathy,  The quality of some screams make you want to go to the person and help them.  She came in trying to be friendly, placatory, I suppose, but before long she was screaming.

I was thinking that they lock us up in these places in an enforced codependency.  They want us to be like them, and insofar as we are not, and the authorities can be made to look as if they permit us to be treated this way, they lock us up until we are a bit more like them, or whoever else it was that wanted to get us sectioned.  I can’t even spell this word, but it is a form of eugenics.  Tommy Boyd had some conversations on the radio about this subject.

I was thinking today that, if Tommy had confidence in me way back then and he is, as he has said, anti all the labelling of ordinary human behaviour and emotions as mental illness – if he had confidence in me and I didn’t respond as he had hoped, it might be right that I recognise that I have contributed to suffering and suicide over all the time I have been listening to him, which might have been prevented.  If these places are, as I keep saying, the UK’s concentration camps.

I have mixed feelings, always, about this.  Today there was a story about someone being force-fed because she did not have the capacity to make a decision herself. These are the kinds of stories which make me stop and think that maybe the psychiatric profession as we know it is necessary, even for those of us who are unwilling, because our fear of something so emotive and identity-challenging as being called mentally ill blinds us to the necessity of the treatment plans enforced.

If that is right then bang goes my assertion that medicine without consent is not medicine, ad that these places should only be fore people who are there voluntarily and no coersion should ever be used.

Maybe this is and should be a different issue from the incessant inconsistencies of application of policy and procedure within the institution, and the cruelty, contempt and violence, psychological and otherwise.

I don’t know.  There have been plenty of times that I have wanted to scream in distress and anger but have not dared for fear of the ‘consequences’.  I put that word in inverted commas, because so often I have heard parents say that children need to be taught that undesired behaviour has consequences, by which they mean a forfeit or a pnishment, sometimes physical.  If the consequences of behaviour are not inherent in the behaviour anything negative a person says is necessary for the offender to feel is not direct from the behaviour and therefore has nothing to do with it.

I’m tired.  I know there is more I want to write but I can’t think at the moment.

I talked to someone at a day centre in Chichester once, asking her if she knew of Tommy Boyd.  She said she didn’t like him and had heard him say that all psychiatric patients should be locked up.  I have a problem with this because I don’t know what to think of it.  I didn’t hear him say it.  And he has often said he sometimes says things to be provocative.  I didn’t hear him say it.  And he has had access to some of the essays I wrote for my English degree.

I keep being angry and ashamed, at the moment, of the ‘fact’ that I have been so arrogant and conceited towards Tommy, thinking he was taking from me rather than that he was representing to me what I had already learned, and also things of his own.  My heart twists when I think how hard he was trying to communicate with me and needing my co-operation.  Then I remember that the reason I have wanted to go it alone, as it were, was that I didn’t want this issue to be decided on gifts and abilities or social standing or connections. I didn’t want to be heard in the psychiatric situation because of who or what was on my side.  I wanted to be considered level and equal with the least gifted and the least desirable, because to fight this issue any other way is just another form of eugenics, in someone’s favour rather than against them.  From the start I have said and meant that I don’t want to be a hero (how can I be, there are areas of my life which are too awful to permit that, though I hear that the great Gandhi used to beat his wife).  I don’t want a statue erected to my part in the downfall of UK’s concentration camps.  I don’t want a foundation in my name, or my name in history for anything to do with any of this, should this great and necessary work be successful.  Because that perpetrates a mentality which says in the face of such awfulness ‘we need another (whoever)’ ‘there is nothing we can do, we don’t know enough about it, no one will listen to us, we know but we can’t do anything’.

I’m not special.  I love it when I feel I am, I feel happy and energised.  But I know that no awfulness anywhere is going to be stopped by maintaining the belief that we need to depend on the emergence of a special person.  If anyone is special, it is the people who are making me feel special.  I hope I wouldn’t be just a stepping stone along the way.  I want to be in the truck that swings the demolision ball for the whole system of coersive medicine.  I’m a Christian.  One special person, to me, did something decisive 2 millenia ago, and the Bible says that he took the keys of death and hell at that moment, and told the rest of us to do the work.

I was thinking about George Orwell’s book 1984 as well.  Where, at the end, after the ultimate betrayal of each other (so the book presents it) in wishing their own greatest nightmares on each other when faced with them physically, they pass each other without acknowledgment, the male protagonist hears the voice of ‘Big Brother’, still surrounded by his images on hoardings and everywhere, and weeps as he realises that he loves Big Brother, and that is where it ends.

I’ve always felt that to be awful and tragic, brainwashing.  That is how Orwell wanted it to be seen, isn’t it?  A very pessimistic outlook on falling into the loving arms of Big Brother and returning the love.  I was taught about the unreliable narrator.  Surely the most unreliable narrator can be the writer him or her self.

I have been ‘loving’ my Big Brother recently, who is all around me and inescapable.  Is it the government, or the media, or a combination?  If it is a combination, what happens when they fall out of love?  If they love me now, what happens when they stop loving me?  The book ended on this broken man’s realisation that he loved Big Brother. It didn’t take us any further than that, though there would have been a further to go in his life.  Is the purpose of the book just to show and present a picture of the effects of torture and brainwashing and leave it there and let the rest of us pick it up and deal with it?

Does Big Brother love me?  Who does Big Brother love?  The political Big Brother is not the same from age to age, with the same agenda.

If we are, in the positive sense, Big Brother to each other, who or what is keeping us apart?

Biggest boo-boo

On eve of the 40th anniversary of my father’s suicide I was being mimicked and I had had enough, so I said ‘tomorrow is the 4oth anniversary of my father’s death’.  One of the patients who has been harassing me for ages said shut up, we’ve all got problems, we don’t want to know and the nurse on duty let her get away with it and whe I challenged it said ‘I didn’t know your father’.  OK, she didn’t know my father, but she had a therapeutic duty towards me in which she failed, and had been rude to me before.  I went angrily to my room saying if that was the way they treated such an important anniversary in my life I didn’t care if they were suffering in any way because of their connection to me. A few minutes later another nurse came in and I asked her what she wanted and she said they didn’t normally let people eat in their bedrooms.

The same nurse who told me she hadn’t known my father last night shouted at me for coming out of my room coughing, when I was coming out for medication to help relieve it.  She was really stern.  I got down near the treatment room and the other nurse on dty asked me what I wanted, but I was so far away that when I told her she motioned to me to shush, again very sternly, as if I was a naughty child or deliquent.  I asked her why she had asked me if she hadn’t wanted me to answer.  She has had that attitude to me before, the day before my mental health act assessment for a section 3. She went to the other nurse andshe was giggling. Before she went to her I said they were trying to make imbeciles of us all.

I went back to my room upset and angry, and Linda came in with a tablet, saying I seemed agitated and that there were other patients on the ward.  I refused to take the tablet and she said if I didn’t calm down they would IM me (inject).  She had a nurse called Errol in to back her up.  This is an all female ward. I have said befre I can’t see the necessity of men on an all female ward, and to have had him used that way felt threatening.

On 18th May, just after Dr Fahy had told me she was considering having me assessed for a section 3, he was staring at me while I was eating.  I moved saying I didn’t want to be stared at while I was eating, that it ws rude, and he said ‘they are my eyes, I’ll do what I want with them.  He followed it up with ‘get your dinner down you’ and ‘stop havinfg a tantrum’  When I got really upset with him and pointed my finger he told me not to point my finger, it was rude.  He tried to make me go to another room to eat.

A few days ago he was carrying his alarm thing right near to his penis.  I’ve noticed this with other male staff.  Errol is black, his alarm thing there looked like a statment of dominant black male sexuality, that was how I interpreted it at the time.  I know about the idea that black men targeted white women for rape.  I am reading a book, or at least have started, called ‘The Other Side of Silence’, about the abuse of wmen, and the ritual rejection of some women where the men would bare their backsides at them and shake their veined penises at their rejects.  That is why I think this might be a significant thing for me to record.

It was about 2am when this thing happened last night.  I was so upset I couldn’t sleep again until 5am.  I was so angry, wondering why they escalated it as they did to threats if njections, instead of apologising for the sternness and taking responsibility for the way t had made me feel.  Linda is covered in tattoos.  I still wonder what kind of personality does that to herself.  It isn’t one I want over me.  Before, when I talked about me, a 50 year old menopausal woman being cheeked by girls barely in their twenties, she told me I was rude and all their staff were . . . she didn’t finish.  After I rallied from that I said that that wasn’t rude, it was complaint material which she had tried to put down. Now she keeps calling me love, my love, my lovely, darling, as I do other patients out of what is probably at least sometimes misguided and unwelcome identification and sympathy with them.

Sometimes I feel I am telling tales out of school.  But there are people who don’t know what to do with this and who feel more destroyed by it than I did, and might take their lives at such provocation.  That is partly why I am writing this.  This stuff happens everywhere.  I think I might be one of the few writing representatives.

Awful 2 vegan days. Last night I ate a McD chicken sandwich and a Twix McFlurry and thoroughly enjoyed them both.  Later had an egg and cress sandwich in Tesco.  Day befre had 2 Fish filet sandwiches from McD’s. Thoroughly enjoyed those as well. My reasons for being vegan are moral and spiritual.  That is what makes my lapse so inexcusable and awful.  But right now I could easily throw the whole thing in.  It would seem so much easier to stop depriving myself of good food in a place I can’t cook for myself.

Wow, So Busy (in my head)

I’ll make time to draft tonight and post tomorrow.  At least now I have my own laptop again and can draft it offline in the privacy of a room which is not going to disappear!

One comment only:

I wrote everything about the deaths and everything to my psychiatrist. She still decided I was section 3 material and I have received no support following my letter, certainly not any based on the content of my letter, which people who know my blog is personally sensitive, and I asked her if she considered herself responsible for the information I have given her, and she said no.  My immediate response to that was to thank her for that piece of information.

Wrote to my uncle, am now in touch with my sister again.  Wrote to Tommy Boyd, but not with this, have to clear my flat by Friday, they decided I don’t have a close enough connection in my uncle.  That was before they knew I had a sibling here, and before I did, because I didn’t know where she was, but she told me that our uncle had been accepted as a link in her case.

Does the plot thicken,or have the rules changed?

I’vehad nothing in writing about anything, just threats of getting rid of my stuff, on the phone, if I didn’t turn up with basically an hour’s notice.

Love you, you-know-who.  It feels so delusional I daren’t even say your name with that statement.

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