choir

About a year ago or so, There was one day when I was glad I returned to forever. That I had done something consciously while awake that returned me to the source.

Since I advocate for people abused by the mental health system, there was this girl I helped. Just someone I ran into, as one does, without having to look. She was rather hard to miss, actually. In trying to describe her, I wonder how I can navigate around saying that she’s bombastic; and rather resembled at times a top someone has sent into spinning motion that teeters back and forth with all of it’s accumulated weight from the “medications,” or is she more like someone delicately toting a bale whose immense weight is shifted from one foot to the other, the bale being the full machinery of the mental health system and it’s ridiculous arsenal of deadly weapons, as if the splattering ignition of them justifies making a joke out of inner trauma. Fortunately, that immense governmental institution doesn’t exist anymore, she’s lost more than 100 pounds, and lives with her mother now, finally having someone to talk to.

As a child, she for whatever reason had some difficulty sleeping and became quite talkative. The result was that she was put on lithium, gained so much weight that her father chased her around the bed with a belt because he felt he needed to punish her for it; and In addition to this, by the same purveyors of Lithium which had caused her weight gain,  he was also told to punish her when she – having been doped into regular stupors, oh sorry I mean medicated into various stupors – couldn’t do her school work. She was going to some special school at the local asylum, even. And it fails me to piece together what happened in between that and the teetering collection of military industrial machinery she carried around with her before losing more than 100 pounds; but that seems rather unnecessary. One would think. I don’t know the exact combination of medications that blossomed into this effect of FDA approved wizardry condoned by the APA, and the Circumlocution Office, I’m sure: See Little Dorrit a “fictional” book by Charles Dickens, to leave an accurate political reference.

She had wanted me to help a friend of hers diagnosed with schizophrenia, because she felt I was good at talking with people. Either that or I had convinced her I was. So, I actually set out one day by bus to visit her in her apartment, to talk to her friend. This was quite difficult; because, once I had arrived and we started conversing, we were quite often under artillery fire from memories she had of her “treatment,” when the conversation we were trying to have reminded her of it. In fact, this ammunition she had stored was of such a volume that our conversation often was bombarded with it. And I couldn’t but help wondering how much the neighbors upstairs, who I thought I heard for a moment as if from another world, could attest to this accumulation of momentum.

Being that I’m quite concerned about such a stockpile of ammunition, I called her back up later (on the phone) and asked her about some of her treatment, since I hadn’t really gone to visit her to be an object of target practice; but she got really upset, told me it was none of my business (this stuff I had had hurled at me in trying to talk to someone else: the person she invited me to talk to) and she hung up. She gave quite the impression of a mouse trap snapping shut in doing so, but I was safely on the other end of the phone line, head intact.

Next I heard she was in the asylum. When I went there to visit her, the first person I ran into was someone who apparently had been there for a couple of months; and when I asked him what he was doing there, gave a non-responsive grunt dulled by medications saying that he didn’t know what he was doing there. There’s a local hospital which I had jokingly called years before, asking them whether they had pregnancy tests for males. Apparently, this guy had walked into their emergency room and stated that he was pregnant; but the hospital didn’t remember – as they had informed me years earlier – they didn’t have pregnancy tests for males. I was told that the psychiatrists couldn’t decide whether his illness was that he thought he was pregnant or that he thought he was female. And my friend was in the asylum getting “voluntary” shock treatment, which was making her so unable to concentrate that we couldn’t hold a cohesive conversation. And of all the artillery fire me and her friend had had to withstand, thanks to her inviting me to talk to him, her mentioning of shock treatment was the most explosive.  I heard from her later that she ended up in a State Asylum, after this.

I’m glad to say that when I ran into her one day about a year ago or so, and got a chance to talk to her for awhile. She had been so explosive, I wondered whether I should avoid her, but I thought it would be good to just talk to her. Since I knew about her history, I simply mentioned that I thought she just needed someone to talk to. I was happy to hear that she had a place now where she had someone to talk to. She was living with her mother, who had divorced her father a long time ago; and so, she said she had someone to talk to.

That evening, I could feel that the simple movement to talk to this girl was something that brings what we do while awake back to the source that all time and space comes from, and isn’t imprisoned by it. Back to forever. I could just feel it as I did my daily meditation. Books like a Course in Miracles and the writings of Marlo Morgan and many others; they might explain to you how this works some more…