GPs: biggest drug-pushers in the UK.

In Great Britain in the 1980s there was widespread unemployment, largely due to government policy of running down industries without replacing any other areas of employment and of diverting wealth to the well-off. This social phenomenon was dealt with by GPs overproscribing Benzodiazepine tranquillisers such as Valium and Ativan. At least 3 billion were addicted. Many lives were consequently ruined.

In the following decades, sufferers took the matter to court, but their cases were arbitrarily stopped by the new government of the time.


In the present day, from 250,000 to a million (The Times: April 29 2017) are similarly addicted. According to the newspaper, GPs were warned over 4 years ago to stop proscribing these drugs willy-nilly. They continued to do so.


GPs are the largest drug-pushing group in the country, addicting millions. These drugs do not even do the job their makers claim they do. 

rebelectric zombie

REBELECTRIC ZOMBIE

LUCY WANTS TO LEARN HOW TO DANCE (I)

written by: MZ CLARKE

@zoeandme

I.

I was a crumbly calamity after that bomb exploded all over me
I was a heap of a thousand puzzle pieces that somehow knew how to magnetically find each other
one elbow bit knew where the other elbow bit was
I started to fuse myself back together
each puzzle piece found its matching groove
kind of like love I guess
I was finally able to stand up with great difficulty
I used a broomstick to hobble around
I fixed the remaining holes with duct tape
which worked amazingly well
I felt good again
then I was hungry
so I ate some more Poisonberry Crunch Cereal
and at the bottom of the box
another wrapped surprise!
My newly fused fingers fumbled with the wrapping
inside was a tiny record player -
wait, the kind with the metal cone - a phonograph or gramophone
from 1877 that Thomas Edison invented
I sat it on the table and stared at it for a while hoping it would play something
magical things happen all the time, don't they?
but the beautiful phonograph sat silently - then a sigh seemed to rise
from the cylinder
and since a jolt of electricity seemed to make everything more exciting and alive
I tied a bunch of wires from the phonograph needle to the electric socket
then plugged in the wires
a bolt of lightning shot across the floor then sparks seemed to dance as a song
began to play - it was Frank Sinatra's voice -
And now the end is near
So I face the final curtain
My friend, I'll say it clear
I'll state my case of which I'm certain

I was so happy I wanted to dance
but I never learned properly
and I wanted a partner to lift me in the air
and spin me around like in all those musicals
I was Ginger Rogers and I needed my Fred Astaire -
but where?
Where could I find him?
I'm not going to sugar-coat this
I needed to find a dead body to be my otherworldly dance partner

II.

So now I was excited
my zombie motto is - don't give up on a dream just because you're dead
I am going to live my electrifried dream - perhaps more alive than when
I had an actual pulse
there's so much freedom really
so I juiced myself up by sticking my fingers in the electric socket
oh, and while I was sleeping I dreamed of a kind of battery pack I could attach
to myself - a lithium battery so I could go outside longer
I attached my new battery pack to my waist and covered it with a cool black vintage leather jacket
then poked holes in my wrists and stuck the wires inside so I was getting a steady series of energy jolts
I "normalized" my face with a ton of makeup, blush and my new fave - poisonberry lipstick
I looked in the mirror
yes - the posionberry gave me a deadly beautiful glow
I looked fantastic

I went to the closet and took out the lockbox and opened it.
I took out a wad of cash - I had to buy a gown and dancing shoes that sparkled

You're probably wondering how I have so much money
well, remember my brother John?
He killed me for the insurance money then felt bad and helped make me a zombie
then of course, as it is with siblings, I killed him back
but did not zombify him - he's buried under the wood shed in the backyard
Funny how evil works its way in
we could've lived as weird roommates for decades but instead he had to be so rude
and kill the hell out of me

I suddenly heard a strange rustling from the backyard
I went to look out the window
a pile of leaves moved in a Spring breeze
I was suddenly sad

To quote Allen Ginsberg: When I died, love, when I died my heart was broken in your care

Even though we never got along, John was the only family I had and neither of us got along with anyone else at all so we made the best of a life in isolation.

Then he had to get greedy and kill me.  The nerve!  So I killed him back and I don't  have to work ever again

I walked slowly through the haunted streets of my childhood
looking carefully at the faces and bodies of my potential Fred Astaire
People started to stare
electrical sparks were surrounding me as if I had my own constellation of stars
I hoped I wouldn't catch on fire
I stopped in at one of the local bars
Ghost Vittles And Grog - good hamburgers and a dance floor
When I was only fourteen and my older brother John was eighteen
he would take me here - everyone thought I was eighteen
no one carded me and lots of guys wanted to dance with me
I had so much fun on '70's night when they played all the songs from Saturday Night Fever
I wore my red polyester dress and silver high heels
I felt beautiful when I was dancing - I was so happy
I wanted that feeling again - don't we all?

Tonight no one was dancing just watching basketball on a big screen TV
staring down a mug of beer and a burger - men all in a row
A ghostly gust of wind blew me into the door
I was instantly terrified as my sparks were flying everywhere and I was afraid
of starting a fire
I quickly turned around and left

Maybe shopping first - baby steps

Not much open except a small dress shop called Vogue Designs
Run by Joanne Ponatowski who I went to school with
I walked in and pulled the collar of my jacket up to hide more of my face
Joanne looked up as I walked in and smiled
She was always outgoing and quite the talker
I got in trouble once when she was talking to me during class and I was trying to pay attention
and the teacher yelled at me "Hey, stop talking or I'm sending you to the principal's office"
I had no problem defending myself - "Mr. Ketchum, I was listening, not talking."
I ended up in the principal's office anyway for my "flippant" remark before I knew what flippant meant

Now Joanne had a sadness about her - a single mom of three - her rat of a husband ran off
with some floozy.
I looked past her sad smile to a half-eaten Styrofoam container of ramen noodles
She held her smile up like a sword "Can I help you?"
"Yes, please, I would like to buy a beaded gown or a gown with lots of feathers like Ginger Rogers wore"
Joanne laughed so loud and bright I turned a shade of crimson, not sure if it was embarrassment or the heat from the battery pack
"let's see what I what I have in stock.  I can always order something for you in another color or-"
Just then the door opened and in walked a man in a hoodie holding a gun
"gimme all your cash or I'll shoot your head off"
At first I was paralyzed but even with the hoodie I recognized that whiny timbre like a broken rusted trumpet
"Rickie Wicceson"
He turned, unpleasantly surprised and pointed the gun at me
just enough time to pull the wires out of my wrist, punch the gun out of his hand while giving him quite an electrical shock in the neck in one swift uppercut motion

He screamed as I picked up the gun.  Rickie's neck was smoking with lots of burn holes
"How did you know it was me?"
"Once a weasel always a weasel.  Hand me your wallet."
"What?!"  Hand me your wallet.  You need another volt or two to come to your senses?  Robbing a single mother of three?!  Shame on you."
Joanne stared at me.  "How did you know..."
Rickie reluctantly handed me his wallet.  I took out the cash.
"Fucking drug dealing son-of-a-bitch.  Your mother must cry herself to sleep every night.  If I hear or see you doing another crime I will come after you.  I know where you live, I know where your mother lives, and your good for nothing cousins live.  Do you hear me?"

He glared at me in disbelief.  Finally - "Yes"
"yes, what?"
"yes, ma'am."
"Now get the hell out of here and I'll be checking your activities in the next few weeks so don't even think about dealing on Franklin and Strattmore anymore."
He scrambled to his feet and left.
Joanne looked a bit faint.
"Thank you.  I don't know how--"
"It's okay, I'll just take the red beaded gown and the white one with the feathers."
She grabbed the two dresses and brought them over noticing the sparks shooting out from my jacket but said nothing.
I handed her all the cash in my pocket.  She pushed the money away.
"No, no, they're free.  I don't know what I would've done if I got robbed again."
"Take it, please.  I have to go.  I'm a bit out of breath."  I struggled to inhale, my chest was burning
I turned and walked out.

In the night breeze, I suddenly felt faint.  I had to sit down.  I found a bus stop and sat on the cool bench.  My hands trembled as I tried to stick the wires back in my wrists.

I panicked.  I might not have enough energy to get home.  I had my Ginger Rogers gowns and I still hadn't found my dance partner
In a fresh state of despair
I stumbled to my feet
in the darkness I nearly fell over a man curled up behind the bus stop
I touched his reaching hand paralyzed in a search for something only he could understand
the hand was ice cold
he was dead
This was my Fred Astaire

the serial clown

The Comfort House Chronicles: The Serial Clown

written by: RayFed

@Raymond_Fed

I had met Miranda while I was getting treatment for, shall we say, emotional problems and the doctors there would all agree, there was a lot of work to be done, but I didn't know that Miranda had it in for me from the beginning. Which I should have known because that is just about where most of tragedies start. What I did know, was that it was going to end badly, which is a curse or gift depending upon how one looks at it. However, this is how most tragedies end and I am ahead of myself, which I tend to do sometimes because of the plate in my head. There was going to be a war between me and Miranda. I could feel it in my bones.

They say war is hell and sitting there in that café I had been thinking about war, Hell and Miranda.  I had never actually been to Hell but I believe life with Miranda was a lot worse. I've been in a war. The thing I noticed most about war is that people seem to run wherever they go. Hunched over, shuffling along or outright sprinting. Seems like I spent most of my time running somewhere as well. Running to follow orders, running to eat, running to sleep, running to take a shit, getting the 'runs' whilst I was shitting and most importantly running away from the really bad fights. I did a lot of running. As a matter of fact this one time I ran so far away from the front lines that I bumped into a general.

He asked me..."Why are you running Private?" and I said, "Sir! This is because the private cannot fucking fly, Sir!" To which he and all the really stupidly bold Generals in the war, at least the ones that were still alive, responded with..."Surprise is on our side soldier. The enemy will never see us coming. 250,000 hard-hitting, death dealing grunts, 500 tanks, 1000 air combat ready planes, eight gazillion rounds of high explosive ammo. The enemy won't know what hit'em. No one expects the attack without mercy, son, no one." Well someone must have expected it because we lost that war and as for the General? Well, at some point he convinced himself that he might really fly. Took a nosedive off of a two hundred foot radar dish. His first and last non-powered flight with a one-way ticket; Exactly 200 feet in the wrong direction. I had been getting that 'wrong direction' feeling from Miranda as of late.

I remember the exact moment I felt the clammy touch of fate and a chill that ran down my spine into my balls and made my scrotum shrivel like a day old dead spider on the carpet. It was when she said...."I love you Frank, but I always felt my life was somewhere out there, beyond the horizon and if I don't leave, right now, right this week, it'll be passing me by and for the last time. So I'm asking, come with me Frank, please, come with me. You and I Frank, we are inevitable. You're all that makes me happy, but if you break my heart again Frank, I'll kill you and that stupid purple rabbit."

"Jeeze Miranda leave-off Benny, he don't know nothing."

"How do you know he does not know anything Frank?"

"Because I asked him."

"Does Benny ever answer you back Frank?"

Benny had been an Easter holiday gift gone wrong. A shimmering white fluffy rabbit that some fink had dyed purple with food coloring. I had found him cowering under a table one night after satisfying my urges with a simple kill. I was about to kill him as well thinking it'd be a mercy living without his fink owner, but then, just then, I looked deep into his eyes and he spoke to me.

"You're not going to fucking kill me are ya?" I almost dropped him from the shock.

"Uh, yeah I was kind of thinking about it."

The rabbit replied, "I'd like it if you didn't."

"Sure, no problem buddy."

"My name's Benny."

"Hiya, I'm Frank." .. And that's how I met Benny, but I digress.

I gave a short pause. Not quite sure how to respond. Sometimes the truth is crazier than a lie. This would make anyone think twice. God I wish I had a Twix candy bar right about now. I decided to stick with crazy. It's what I know best.

"Sometimes. Yeah sometimes he does Miranda. Does that surprise you? Are you just flabbergasted Miranda?"

I was hoping she was flabbergasted because she was never struck speechless. Unless you count the time I struck her in the head and knocked her out. I had to hide for two weeks until she wasn't mad enough to kill me. Culverts and sewers can be surprisingly comfortable once you get past the smell.

"No, it doesn't really surprise me at all Frank. I remember the night you were so drunk you were asking my dildo for sexual advice. Did that dildo talk back to you to Frank?"

"NOOOOO. Dildos can't talk Miranda they aren't people ...er uh rabbits. Uh alive, things. You know what I mean."

Miranda stood there and stared at me for like three minutes without saying a word. I was starting to get really uncomfortable and when I get nervous I sidestep a little from foot to foot. I could see the pupils of her eyes getting smaller and smaller like two peas rolling down a four lane highway. It was times like these, she was at her most sadistic and I sensed the gears in her twisted little mind grinding back and forth. Then, like a moth in a bug zapper it was gone.

"Ok, well Frank I'm going to give you a day or two to make up your mind about going while I make travel plans."

"Excuse me, our travel plans?"

"Yes. Our travel plans.  You're going too. Take a day or two to think about it and make sure you're packed and ready to go."

She came at me suddenly and not meaning to, I flinched. The kiss was warm and loving and wonderful and long and deep and I could feel myself starting to get a boner and .....she was done.

"Be ready to go Frank."

"Sure Miranda. I-I will."

She walked out the door turning to look at me in the squarely in the eyes and pulled the door shut not breaking contact. In fact, I got the distinct impression she was on the other side of it, still staring into my eyes. I resisted the urge to whip open the door to see if she was there. I never could tell when she was coming or going. She was as silent as a ghost fart and three times as deadly. God damn that bitch scared me. She always did and there wasn't another soul on this planet that I was afraid of. The thought of that was giving me another boner. I had to pack my things, but first that boner wasn't going to take care of itself.

pablo neruda

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing. 

You know how this is: 
if I look 
at the crystal moon, at the red branch 
of the slow autumn at my window, 
if I touch 
near the fire 
the impalpable ash 
or the wrinkled body of the log, 
everything carries me to you, 
as if everything that exists, 
aromas, light, metals, 
were little boats 
that sail 
toward those isles of yours that wait for me. 

Well, now, 
if little by little you stop loving me 
I shall stop loving you little by little. 

If suddenly 
you forget me 
do not look for me, 
for I shall already have forgotten you. 

If you think it long and mad, 
the wind of banners 
that passes through my life, 
and you decide 
to leave me at the shore 
of the heart where I have roots, 
remember 
that on that day, 
at that hour, 
I shall lift my arms 
and my roots will set off 
to seek another land. 

But 
if each day, 
each hour, 
you feel that you are destined for me 
with implacable sweetness, 
if each day a flower 
climbs up to your lips to seek me, 
ah my love, ah my own, 
in me all that fire is repeated, 
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, 
my love feeds on your love, beloved, 
and as long as you live it will be in your arms 
without leaving mine.

Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream? 

Edgar Allan Poe

gulls at night

Gulls at Night

  

Awake is sleeping fast while still awake

in this vacated harbour town of squalls

where thousands stir if several curse the night

and gulls dispute the wrecks of cod and spud.

A dream’s no dream and nightmares lap and lurk

around the idle swing bridge, under lamps,

when brittle sirens break the patterned din

of seabirds marking out their blind terrains.

Some loneliness is more when by the sea

against the smoke house, through the undead crowd

or in the withered souvenirs of how

a few may graft where those that fly, hold sway.

Will Daunt

bluestone mound

http://spillwords.com/bluestone-mound/

Wrong thinking? Time to rethink. Psychiatry is not a science but a construct!

On the 30^th of March 2017 the American Academy of Religion (AAR) accepted my proposal for their next conference – this is it:

Acute Religious Experiences – Disability or What?

“Mad Studies” is an emerging field within the Academy, originating in Canada in the work of scholars such as Robert Menzies, Geoffrey Reaume and Brenda LeFrançois who edited Mad Matters: A critical reader in Canadian mad studies. (Menzies 2013); Richard Ingram at the Simon Fraser University in Vancouver and David Reville, Kathryn Church and Jiji Voronka at the School of Disability Studies at Ryerson University. Developments can also be found at UK Universities, including Bridgit McWade, Damian Milton and Peter Beresford who co-authored Mad studies and neurodiversity: A dialogue. (McWade 2015).

Mad Studies acknowledges its debt to Disability Studies, Feminism, Critical Race Theory and LGBT+ studies and, similarly, privileges the relevant experiences of researchers. Mad Studies is the successor to Antipsychiatry (Laing 1967, Cooper 1970) and Critical Psychiatry (Double 2006, etc.). Mad Studies has an evolving relationship with Disability Studies but Beresford (2016) situates Mad Studies within the ambit of Disability Studies.

Much of the current effort in Mad Studies engages particular explorations of Madness as the subject of historical, psychological, sociological, political, legal and medical research and investigation.  But the, non-exclusive, alternative is as an intellectual infestation which seeks to engage, inform and reorientate any acadmeic orthodoxy which currently excludes Madness from its curriculum. It is this latter approach which this paper pursues.

I argue that Madness provides a bigger category which can exceed the need to pathologize which characterizes the domain of Psychiatry. The nosological classifications of the DSM, the ICD and the CCMD find their power in what Max Müller once dubbed ‘Classify and Conquer’. The self-fulfilling completism, which makes Not Otherwise Specified into a major diagnostic category (more than half the morbidity of Schizophrenia) flows from a way of organising knowledge which privileges reification over life experiences. Whilst this flows naturally from Psychiatry’s comorbidity with rise of Modernity and Medicine, Psychiatric classification has become a liability to thinking about extraordinary experiences and practices in a postmodern world.

The bigger picture of Madness is not in opposition to Psychiatry, that would be a return to antipsychiatry and critical psychiatry. Rather it is a different way of seeing which recognises that Schizophrenia is just a metaphor and which returns with metaphors of its own. For example, in the English language there is no name for the dark part of the crescent moon. So, metaphorically, psychiatry can be characterised as speaking to the shiny crescent, but it loses its way in the less visible hinterland of extraordinary experiences. Madness is the whole of the moon.

If Psychiatry is conceptualised as addressing a subset of Madness, Mad Scholars can draw on existing psychiatric theory rather than simply stand against it. For example, in psychiatric epistemology, Schizophrenia is found to be prevalent across the whole human population (WHO 1977) and it involves heritable gene variations (Ripke 2014). As gene variations cannot be retrojected, the only realistic way of explaining these two facts is found in the work of evolutionary psychologists (e.g. Burns, Crow, Nichols) who propose that the heritable gene variation required for Schizophrenia occurred in Homo Sapiens prior to the Diaspora from sub-Saharan Africa more than 100,000 years ago.

From a Mad Studies perspective, the idea of Schizophrenia prior to Eugene Bleuler’s conception of it in 1908 (Bleuler 1911) is an absurd anachronism involving a dubious process of retrospective diagnosis. However, the idea that heritable gene variation took place prior to the Diaspora is of immense value to a bigger theory of Madness. If this is taken seriously (and psychologists who deny all biological argument don’t.) then Madness is a foundational part of Human Diversity. In this new perspective, the susceptibility to Madness is in the World but reconceptualised as no longer necessarily pathological.

The non-ordinary, the extra-ordinary and the incomprehensible continue to present challenges to Modernity, which privileges reason and the repeatability of science. In a Mad Studies world, the objectivity of the criteria of pathology turn out to be the externalisation of presuppositions of a normative theory of the abnormal. This doesn’t eradicate the pathological, but it does cast new light on Psychiatric traditions. The reason why Socrates, Jesus, Mohammed and a host of individual saints; not to mention whole traditions of Shamans, Sufis, Sadhus and Spirit Possessed have been treated as mentally disordered by Psychiatrists is the result of an epistemological struggle of Modernity grounded in a colonial world view against the practices of the supernatural. The pathologization of the spokespeople of extreme non-ordinary states leaves their narrative accounts of Angels, Jinn, Spirit Flight and the direct experiences of God, Spirit, Reality or the Ancestors discredited.

The consequence of removing the myopic Psychiatric need to pathologize frees up the greater category of Madness allowing it to come into view. The application of the term Madness to a prehistoric context is still an anachronism, but a lesser one, grounded in texts from the 14^th rather than the 20^th century. It might seem to be a small gain for those who have seen God to be dubbed Mad instead of Mentally Disordered, but the difference is resolved by the introduction of “Acute Religious Experiences” as a category, a descriptor, a diagnosis. Did Jesus have an Acute Religious Experience during the Transfiguration? Did he see visions, hear voices and undergo all of the manifestations of a Psychotic break? In conventional terms these two questions are incommensurate, unresolvable. In a Mad Studies perspective, the dichotomy between the experience and its explanation dissolves because the pathological presupposition of the word ‘Psychotic’ can be erased.

This erasure operates against the sui generis constructions Religious Scholars have built to defend the weirdness of their subjects against the accusations of the Psychiatrists. In a world where Madness is not a crime and not a means of silencing the strange, I propose that it is time to have a more mature conversation as to whether Acute Religious Experiences are an ability or a disability.

Victims are far more likely to be judged mentally ill than their aggressors.

The father realised that the mother and senior worker had begun co-operating together. He saw them occasionally discussing matters, and once overheard them discussing him.


The mother appears to have fed the senior worker a series of lies on the father's behaviour, giving it appears the false idea that he was stalking/annoying her. The senior worker then began abusing the father-calling him names, accusing him of being a monster and other choice epithets. This was a clear case of collusion. My client, the father, went to his MP who intervened.


1) Judgements on mental health are subject to prejudice not science.
2) professional mental health workers construct their own reality from anecdotal evidence or simply prejudice.
3) Professional mental health workers operate within a bullying framework.
4) A professional believes only a fellow professionals insight is authentic.
5) They all engage in the construction of alternative realities.
6) Victims are far more likely to be judged mentally ill than aggressors as professionals tend to be aggressors themselves and it is easier to deal with one person, usually the one lacking in confidence, than several demanding people.
7) professionals scapegoat employing mental health discriptions
8) Difficult prople are silenced using mental health diagnosis.

Second case -part 1

Let's look at another case, somewhat different from the previous one.


A man attempting to acquire rights, for that is what it was and is, for and over his son. His ex-partner had gone back to her previous boyfriend and they intended to bring the boy up as their own. The mother accordingly made accusations as to the real father's stability, although both had been at one time addicted to tranquillisers.

First they saw a leading social worker-who made a judgement on the real father based on a few meetings and through a highly subjective prism. She would have had no genuine knowledge of human psychology but would have consulted notes. She did not allow the father to review, thereby correcting, her conclusions. As an 'expert' her view dominated.


The real father had to see his son at various supervised meeting places. He was seen as the problem even though he merely met his son and played with him-merely loved him. He avoided the mother, who correctly as it turned out, he regarded as controlling and manipulative. Given previous behaviour on her part, he believed the mother would misrepresent his actions if he attempted to discuss the child with her or approached her in any way.

The child, like the real father but unlike the mother and her boyfriend, showed early intelligence. Eventually they ended up in a highly regarded children's centre where officially the father was reviewed as 'having problems'. Most of the information on his 'problems' came from the mother although the social worker, without any formal training in human psychology and largely egged on by the mother, had also encouraged that view. The energy of the senior staff went towards helping him with his (completely imaginary) problems and were thereby purposely distracted from the mother's behaviour.

Although the father gave no reason for any of this, he developed a reputation for having problems for which he required treatment. one of the senior staff attempted un-asked for analysis on him, which he defended with sarcasm and ridicule.

RENOWNED PSYCHIATRIST AND YOUNG PATIENT.

For those amongst you who believe that psychiatry is a genuine science, think again!


Firstly, with one story-this happened 50 years ago and concerned a world famous psychiatrist, a mother and young daughter.

The mother brought her daughter of maybe 14 or 16 to the renowned doctor claiming she was mentally ill. She was in a relationship with a boy against her mother's wishes, a boy whom the girl claimed she loved.

In those days children did not have the rights, including to be heard and listened to, they do now. A child of 16 was under the authority of the parent.

The doctor believing the mother's controlling assertions took on the girl as his patient and without the girl's permission gave her electro-convulsive-treatment-that is sent powerful electric currents through her brain. She consequently lost most of her memories.

Over the years the girl retreived some of her memories, eventually recognising her boyfriend, whom later she married. To all intents and purposes the girl's life was ruined.

This kind of behaviour occurred frequently in Soviet Russia at the time and in other dictatorships around the world.

Q1) Ask yourself. Should the renowned doctor been charged and punished? After all, he abused a child and caused the child irreparable damage.

Answer_Doctors are part of the state like justices and police with rights over the ordinary population. If a psychiatrist says someone is mentally ill and requires treatment by and large they are believed.

But yes, he should have been charged. Unfortunately, they never are and such abuse as outlined above continues in some form or another today.

psychiatry

Psychiatry is 80% charlatanism. ？？？？

WATCH THIS SPACE

poem by breeze mist

Breeze-Mist  24m

Playstructure Castles

Sometimes it was a palace
Of gossiping cortesians
Ruled by a queen
With an army of rough men at her influence
A palace from which I, the demon,
Was forbidden to enter
A place of shared lunchables and rubber bangles
While I was relegated to chasing bugs
And swinging through branches

At other times, it was a prison
Guarded by four of the new queen's men
While they sat counting poker chips of bark
I sat plotting an escape
I could dash out and outlast any man
But in a confined land
They'd intersect my path, given long enough
And every time
They'd drag me back under by my coat sleeves
Kicking and shouting

And other times
When no one else was out
And the grounds were as silent as a winter's night
And the queen and her men were in the city
Arguing ranking amongst lords and ladies
I would be out on the parapets
Turning the fortress
Into my domain
A perch with a view of the whole kingdom
A castle owned by the wild dragon

Now I walk up to it
And watch the children upon it
And I remember my time
As a demon
A prisoner
And a fierce, unbridled dragon

NuBlaccSoU1

NuBlaccSoUl Jan 26

Untitled

I'm reaching but never gripping, 
It's soul ripping how they're preaching, yet aren't teaching. 

I'll never hide, 
even when I die. 
I'll be immortalized
in some formaldehyde. 
Where my soul and skin divide
I'll be like a deity, 
the higher me, 
doing the Lord's work, 
hire me.

The humble apple pie
can satisfy no appetite
here comes the hunger tide. 

When wings carried Icarus
through cutting winds
we were pulled feathers
of wisdom's birdy-body of ink
taking flight to Olympus planes 
the son, seeks The Sun
OH-you. 

I'm grown now, 
dealing with chronic stress, 
and I believe less in a deity, 
it seems like too far a stretch 
The stench from a faithless
Hopeless, homeless.

(C) 2016. Copyrighted 27th January 
2017 NuBlaccSoUl™. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem.

Derek Walcott

Love After Love

a poem by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

JILTED-SYLVIA PLATH-Poetry

My thoughts are crabbed and sallow,
My tears like vinegar,
Or the bitter blinking yellow
Of an acetic star.

Tonight the caustic wind, love,
Gossips late and soon,
And I wear the wry-faced pucker of
The sour lemon moon.

While like an early summer plum,
Puny, green, and tart,
Droops upon its wizened stem
My lean, unripened heart.

LOVE LIFE-written by Mujer

 Mujer

Falling

“You are the most beautiful and exciting person I know, and I think of kissing you often”, I read the letter over and over again, I felt the churning of excitement or fear, maybe both in my stomach. I fell in love with her words. And what she did to my body. The idea of falling in love. And hope.

Date

After our first date and watching her eat her food, all sloppy like, I drove away thinking, “what the fuck have I done”. I was meeting her the next day and I promised myself that I would end it, end it before it even started, she wasn’t what I wanted. I’d known her for years but I never noticed the way she ate before. Maybe I was looking for an ‘out’. Although I liked the way she kissed, I didn’t expect that I would. I really liked the way she kissed. The way I kissed her.

The next morning

I collected coffee on the way to her house, she was like an excitable puppy “I am so glad that you are here”, she looked at me longingly and I loved the way she looked at me, I noticed her pretty eyes for the first time, again something I never noticed before. Maybe I was looking for an ‘in’. “I really want to kiss you”, fuck it I thought and I let her kiss me. I really liked the way she kissed. I instantly started to lift her shirt, she pulled it down, like a nervous scared and body conscious teenager. “I just want to feel your skin”. And with that I was lost in her. I was definitely now IN.

Love letters

She wrote me the most exquisite love letters, when I stopped getting them I knew I no longer wanted her. I fell in love with her words. She warned me that she didn’t really know she could write like this, I knew she was trying this on, trying us on, I didn’t care. I wanted to be Anais Nin and Henry Miller, I want a fabulous wordy love affair. Intense and tragic. I fucking hate those letters now. They are sitting in my cupboard I am going to burn them. Soon…

Flannel pyjamas

“How the fuck did we get to flannel pyjamas and no bras so quickly” she stopped wanting to impress me, she knew I wasn’t a flannelette kinda girl… we went from love letters to flannelette fucking pyjamas. I hated the smell of her pyjamas.

Breaking up

I was watching us break up like I was sitting in the audience of a play, I felt the pain and depth of what was happening but it felt like it wasn’t to me, I could hear the words coming out of her mouth, I could hear her confusion and contradiction in a simple sentence “I love you so much, this has been the best relationship I’ve ever had, but what’s the point?”
So what is the point?
What’s the fucking point?
The point is life gets really messy we are both strong, intelligent, feisty and somewhat fucked up women, both raising our own versions of angsty teenagers, both busy with demanding lives, with friends, ex’s, family’s, dreams, hopes and immense amounts of baggage. Yes merging that is hard. Really fucking hard. But I guess the thing is that if one person wants it more than the other it not going to work, or it will work in its toxicity.
“See you, I am sure in time we will be friends” I said, but I didn’t mean it.

Last contact

“You told me you were narsissistic”, she thinks of me what I dared not speak what I thought of her.
Panic sets in she hates me, I need to fix it!
She thinks I am petty and want revenge because she hurt me.
I want to hurt her back instead I just say “sorry it has come to this”. I am not sorry I just don’t want to see her again, I don’t care what she thinks of me, but when I feel low, I want her to still want me. When I am well I am repulsed by her, I can’t even imagine having coffee with her.

Now

It’s amazing what hindsight reveals when you have had time away, time apart. I have a pattern. I fall in love with the idea of love, once I start fucking someone I lose all ability to make good conscious decisions. The skin hunger takes over. I knew she wasn’t girlfriend material, a life partner, but for a brief second wanted her to be. I knew her kind of damaged and my kind of damage would be a toxic mix. I think she saw that before I saw it. I realise that now. I often wonder if she read my journal sitting on the bed side table, begging to be read, did she read about what I really thought, my ambivalence, my constant torment of wanting and not wanting.

I loved fucking her, I love pretending we loved each other, I kept waiting for her to fuck up, I knew she would. I knew I would. Maybe we both tried something on, maybe she tried this lezo thing, she was good at it but I think she craved normal, even though she swears that she doesn’t want that life. She described the men she loved, “skinny with sunken chests, scrawny” she laughs, I feel sick. Sides of her repulsed me.

As for me, how many fucked up straight, well maybe not that straight, women do I have to fuck before realising that I don’t even like them.

The last few weeks when things turned, her smell started to repulse me, yes the smell that weeks before I craved, like a drug. Her mess that initially I didn’t see as a problem started to make my skin crawl, she would get a crease at the top of her forehead and I would see her ugly side, she would frown and I would see the nasty side of her, I often wandered what ugliness she saw in me.

I wonder if she knew that she was starting to repulse me. “I make you feel sick,” she said that weekend, the weekend where we stopped connecting, where I vomited after she hugged me and the asked me “are you going to be like this all weekend? I’m bored”.
Yes she did make me sick, my mind was telling my body “runnnnnnnn”, but I wasn’t listening.
I started to loath her that weekend.
I started to hate myself for loving her, actually for pretending to love her.
I started to question my body after I learnt to let go of that with her.
I started to question my sanity, why do I do this with people.
Why do I expect so much from them when I know that they are damaged.

Was she play acting in this relationship, I knew she tried being the best she possibly could but I think that maybe she knew that it wasn’t enough, I am demanding, physically and emotionally, she is lazy in both. She gave me the best of both at the beginning and then I noticed the shift. I saw the change.

I also noticed her pain and I felt the pain and I could see her resist feeling it. I need someone who understands who they are emotionally. I need someone who understands who she is. Loves who she is before they love me. I am loveable and this time I have asked for what I wanted but met with resistance, I walked away. She is broken, as I am, but I have tried and loved and worked through loves and friendships and am healing, slowly healing. Understanding my capacity for love and being loved. I have had to walk away, we speak different love languages.

I loved the idea of us, the idea of love, maybe it was me who tried something on, me who created the beautiful lie and she came along, being the actor she is, tried it on too, role played the scene beautifully as any gifted actor would.

Still, I don’t think I like her anymore.
With a touch and slide of some buttons I have deleted her out of my life.
My greatest love is around the corner.
She was the most recent trial run.
A rehearsal.

I stopped vomiting the day after she left. I vomited nearly every morning of our three months together.

The body knows.

Yes I am damaged but at least I know it. Now.