Thoughts Are Things (How Far?)

Torture. Have you any idea what it is like to be tortured by your own country, by a country you once loved? I'm not speaking of physical torture, I'm speaking of psychological torture.

Have you ever spent time around three dozen crazy males and females? Have you ever spent time around 30 males and females screaming in tongues the best translators in the world are almost incapable of understanding? Being in constant fear that someone is going to break into your unlocked room at night and eat you? Being afraid to think the wrong syllable or you'll be locked up forever? Not having something known as the freedom of thought? Have you ever known that telekenesis is far more real than you know? Have you ever been around people who know?

Go speak to a homeless man, the craziest one you can find- but know, they're only crazy until you understand their logic.

It's like living in a cave your entire life, only to be brought out of the cave, forced out of it, to walk outside, and have the light nearly blind you. As you whimper with pain, nearly falling to your knees, they kick you in the ribs and then bring you back into the darkness. It's a light you never wished to view, it's a light you never wished you were exposed to. It's a light which helps you to find...

The majority function in one specfic and over-ruling linguistic and logical framework. Others stray away from this forming smaller groups. These groups vary. However, most don't realize the how's, the why's, the ways in which one can progress and create their own, and the freedoms this brings about. Imagine being around 30 people who have found these, who speak in ways the majority could not even understand. How to explain.

How to explain...

(Thoughts are things)

How to explain...

(Thoughts are things)

How to explain...

Reflections on Pharmaceuticals and Institutionalized Hospitals

A youth, around five, begins running around his house with a playmate. His playmate has little energy because he hadn't slept much the night before. The two play, but one appears to be overflowing with energy, he appears to be over-zealous and hyper, like a sugar rush. His parents recognize this difference, not realizing the difference stems from the other child's lack of sleep. They wonder if they should take their son to a Dr. due to his seeming "abnormality."

Thirteen years later, the child is leaving his parents' house after years of being drugged with Ritalin, and, as a result, wonders if he has become dependent on the drug. He is attached for life, spending millions of dollars to correct a disorder he never had in the first place.

Is this morally correct?

A man from another country, who barely speaks English, does not know how to communicate "properly." As a result, he cycles between two languages, a strange combination of his foreign tongue and the few English words he knows. A police officer walks by, hears him speaking to a store-owner (who is frustrated because he cannot understand the man), and as a result, decides to take him in for psychiatric evaluation. The store owner is well known, after-all, and anyone who would irritate the owner must have some sort of a problem. The Dr., who only speaks one language, begins giving the man medication for bipolarity. As a result, the pills begin triggering a chemical disequilibrium in the man's brain, giving him a bipolar disorder rather than healing it.

Is this morally correct?

A third youth recognizes the fact that he might have schizophrenia. He does not wish to see a psychiatrist because he does not wish to get attached to any medication for life, nor does he wish to be forced to lose millions of dollars to see a doctor week after week in therapy. So, he picks up a novel from an author who had once  purposefully induced himself with schizophrenia by smoking pot. The book he picks up was a bildungsroman tale, where the main character transforms from a child into an adult, and through the process, overcomes his psychological difficulties. The book is called "A Clockwork Orange" The youth feels better after a couple of weeks.

Is this morally correct?

Explanations

He walked from a plane, landing in San Francisco from his hometown of Mongolia. His breath was short, he gazed around with a stern expression reaching into the minds of those around him. He saw televisions, electronic frames connected to America's all seeing eye, an electronic picture frame, a mirror. It reminded him of an interrogation, where only one side of a mirror is clear, the other, translucent. He knew this television with its omniscient link. He walked in front of the television and swiped with his hand, muttering a few words of jumbled English and Mongolian like a lunatic. People passed by as if nothing had ever happened...


"Need money?" He asked, looking into my eyes. We were locked in a lunatic asylum without ever knowing when we would get out. He was from another country- I humorously began to wonder how safe visitors should feel in America.
Not such a great place to him, is it?

I spoke to him. I was probably one of the rare who could understand him, we talked of various subjects. He mentioned TV's were water and piss. I mentioned they were a part of the all seeing eye. He wouldn't speak English. He integrated a few languages, a few more than Mongolian, just so I could piece together what he was saying. He was trying to avoid having our government listen and understand him, hoping I was quicker than anyone who would be listening.

He waved his hand in front of the TV.
I knew, too.

What else shall we talk about? I asked him, knowing his knowledge is limitless. We spoke seriously of orange juice, the impact of candy, about his homeland and how he made his money. He should be set free, I thought.

We spoke for an hour. After a while he began to speak more fluently, where one of the five other people in the room could get the gist of his words. After a while he returned to English, although we dabbled between several linguistic structures, where most still could not understand
After our talk, he began to listen, he began to act less strange, he began to use his hand like a wand to alter the TV's subliminal messages less. I wasn't sure if I felt safer with his hand waving or not, but at least the doctors would think he was more sane.

They load him up with five types of pills.
I speak to him and inquire about his safety.
Who helps him, me or the doctors?

I wasn't sure if the betrayal felt stronger, or the humiliation.


He seemed to me a political prisoner thrown into a lunatic asylum because there, no one would ask questions.
He was not the only one.
There, they could pretend his actions and words were mere insanity,.There, few would ever listen to his perspective again. You deem someone crazy, even raise some sort of suspicion, most will refuse to listen again.

This man, a traveler, a visitor from another country. Could we imagine if his country did that to an American? Would our country care enough to save one us? I imagine myself in his country locked in an insane asylum, knowing my saneness perfectly well, without any choice regarding whether or not I would ever leave.

My mind turns to ee Cummings, locked away in France's concentration camps. A political prisoner. A man who knew things the world thought was crazy.

We once cared. We once did,
We were once honorable,
noble, valiant, and true.
Now, I'm not so sure.

He was the craziest one. He was the sanest one.
His story was the most tragic.

I wasn't sure if the betrayal felt stronger, or the humiliation.


I found a woman who walked around the lunatic bin announcing every thought she could utter, speaking at a fairly constant pace without stop all day long. She always held a stern expression, one which was viciously bitter at a world which rejected her. I hadn't seen her smile, nor laugh, only frown, glare, and speak bitterly.

She was absolutely abnormal.
She was absolutely normal.

I stood outside playing basketball, humans who are treated like cattle sat around me and cheered. I was wondering if the majority of them could safely touch a basketball, much less play. The bitter woman walked over and grabbed a ball. We played basketball. She smiled with me, looking into my eyes. She laughed after making a shot. Her bitterness was swept away like a breeze of fresh air. She appeared sane.

Later, I saw her inside. She never looked quite the same. Never as happy, and never as bitter, always with the smallest smile, always with the slightest twinkle in her eye. She paced less, she repeated phrases less, she no longer spoke rapidly her every thought. She became nearly the same as others, nearly... only slightly more happy.
The doctors numbed her, I brought her back to life.
Who helps, me or the doctors?

I would never return. It was one of the worst things I've seen my country do to humans, I wasn't sure if the betrayal felt stronger, or the humiliation.
I know who I am, I was smart enough to deny their pills.
Could she say the same?

I found the new people were more socially normal than the ones who had been there for a while. The pills made them more crazy. I knew. It scared even me. I never get scared.
The longer they stay, the worse it becomes.

I wasn't sure if the betrayal felt stronger, or the humiliation.


Another told me her mother was a celebrity, that she would get out quickly. I smiled. I said for sure. She smiled, too. She laughed.
I heard her speaking on the telephone.
I wish I didn't.

I wasn't sure if the betrayal felt stronger, or the humiliation.


Another told me her mother was a teacher who taught at a daycare. Mother Mary! Mother Mary! The kids would call to her. She began to tell everyone all she needed was coke to kill someone, a gift for a murder, she said. She told us how the police stole her laptop, how the police stole her money and took her there.
I knew who I was. I know who I am. Could she say the same?

I wasn't sure if the betrayal or the humiliation was stronger.

One said I was their doctor (I thought I was the doctor's doctor).
I actually listened.
I actually talked them through.
I actually helped them with their problems.
I actually knew their humanness wasn't lost.
I knew who I was. Could they say the same?


I wasn't sure if the betrayal or the humiliation was stronger.
(We caused the problems, we didn't fix them).
I wasn't sure if the betrayal or the humiliation was stronger.
(We caused their problems, we didn't fix them).

I wasn't sure if the betrayal or the humiliation was stronger.

Reawakening

You wake up in a medium sized room, empty of everything, with a barred window letting in only the smallest light. There's a door with a small, square window reaching out to a long hallway. There's a little rectangular light which is turned on so your bed is illuminated enough for someone to see you through the peephole as you sleep.

You're alone. You're abandoned. You've been betrayed.

A women rushes in at four in the morning, waking you from your bed without knocking.

Where are you, you wonder. It feels like a hospital mixed with a concentration camp. It feels like an elementary school with plastered walls, a cabinet, and white tile, as the grown up special ed department screams in the background. You see one man who might hurt you. You see another man who is drooling and walking around with only his underwear on. 

You are alone.

You are so very alone.

You have been abandoned.

She rushes into your room, she ties you up to a machine. You hold back emotion. You hold back words. She puts a needle into your arm and injects you with something.

"What time is it?"

"It's 4 in the morning," she says.

She walks out. You sit in your empty room. Scared and alone. Betrayed and abandoned. Helplessly locked in. You stare out of your door, you see a man drooling. You stare the other direction, a man looks at you like food. You sit on your bed. Am I safe to sleep? You think.

How addicted to meat are these humans?

You hear a scream. You think.

You wonder what makes that man drool. You regain a complacent understanding with yourself to deny every medication.

Am I safe to sleep? You think. You remain quiet. You wait.

What will they say when I turn down the meat? You wonder about the drool. 

I watch as a man from another country walks by.

Imagine if he told you...