Wednesday, April 28, 2010
BLOG CLOSING: HAS MOVED TO germainedelarch.wordpress.com
Blog has morphed and transformed into Life Writ Large. Follow it here.
Monday, April 26, 2010
THE PATH FROM THE INTELLECTUAL TO THE EMOTIONAL
Sanity/recovery is about getting your truth from your head to your heart, from an intellectual concept to an emotional reality. And this transition is only possible through action. Having your truth as an intellectual concept only is useless and as good as a lie.
INTEGRITY, HAPPINESS, RECOVERY, HERAPY
The key to happiness/recovery is integrity. Therapy is only a tool to maintain integrity; nothing more, nothing less.
ATTITUDES TO LIFE
If you only want to make life bearable, adopt an attitude of compromise. If you only want to make life livable, adopt an attitude of acceptance. The only way to make life beautiful is to adopt an attitude of insatiable curiosity.
Friday, April 23, 2010
LIFE
LIFE: choosing life, means accepting that life is difficult, that no one and no thing owes me anything; that it’s up to me to get over my lost childhood and unmet needs; that I am going to go about actively fulfilling my own needs, and allowing others to fulfil them, and that although I lost my childhood and most of my early adulthood, I still have a life to live and I want to live my best life being my best self. I want to be my best self for myself and others so that I can receive their best selves and the best from the universe. And if the best is not forthcoming from others or the universe, then I will be in the best place to handle that.
DEPRESSION
DEPRESSION: being caught between deciding whether to choose LIFE or death. (This is different to clinical depression). In this state, I have spent 15-20 years actively mourning my unmet needs and lost childhood, blaming others for things unmet and lost while waiting for current and past needs to be met and found without actively seeking to meet and find them myself, or allowing others’ attempts at meeting and finding to take place. It’s a limbo, a stuck-ness, a self-inflicted purgatory where I have been the jailed and the jailor, bemoaning my fate while at the same time tightening the handcuffs, securing the bars. It took me this long to escape from the handcuffs and the bars because I spent so much time crying and thrashing, so much time screaming abuse and pleading with the jailor that I did not realise that I was the jailor and the jailed, which not only meant that my jailor self could release my jailed self, but that there were no bars and handcuffs to begin with.
CREATIVITY
CREATIVITY: I need to be creative in order to be happy. Creativity engages my intellect, my emotions, my passion, it is filled with meaning and it is who I am when I am honest with my self. There is no balance if I am not creative. Without creativity there is only DEPRESSION and DEATH. Creativity is my authentic self, it is LIFE.
HAPPINESS
HAPPINESS: is not Fairy Tale happiness or White-Picket-Fence-2,5-Kids ‘happiness’. Happiness is when I am in recovery, am honest and there is balance.
RECOVERY
RECOVERY: There is nothing more important than my recovery. I have chosen LIFE over DEATH, passion and energy over DEPRESSION. Recovery is the broad term under which all of the other terms and activities fall. Recovery is the only way I can achieve my authentic self and HAPPINESS.
BALANCE
BALANCE: this is a balance between the Emotional and Intellectual Self, the honest and dishonest self. Without it there is no authentic self. Without it, there is no RECOVERY.
MEETINGS
MEETINGS: the 12 Steps are not possible without meetings. Meetings provide a framework for the structure and routine of the 12 Steps, which in turn provides the structure and routine for the BALANCE between dishonesty and honesty. Meetings also help with the SOCIAL LIFE aspect of the Physical Life.
12 STEPS
12 STEPS: an inventory is not possible without these steps. They provide a structure and a routine and a BALANCE between dishonesty and honesty. The 12 Steps are not possible without MEETINGS.
INVENTORY
INVENTORY: I need to do a monthly, if not weekly inventory of my physical life and if I find something out of balance, then I need to trace it back to the dishonesty in my emotional/intellectual life. An inventory is not possible without the 12 STEPS.
AUTHENTIC SELF
AUTHENTIC SELF: my Self when I am living my best life; a self that harnesses energy and expends it on things that have meaning, things that engage my passion, things that are CREATIVE, life-giving and not harmful to anyone else.
HONESTY
HONESTY: Everything is interconnected, but the root of it all, is honesty.� And the person I need to be most honest with is my self. I cannot be honest with others until I am honest with myself.� Honesty with my self, means, being honest about my PHYSICAL LIFE. If there is something out of BALANCE in these physical, concrete areas, then there is something DISHONEST about my emotional/intellectual state. And once I’ve recognised that there is dishonesty, I need to do an INVENTORY of my physical life and trace it back to the dishonesty at the emotional/intellectual level. When I am dishonest, I am not my AUTHENTIC SELF. Only when I am honest with myself can I be authentic to my Self.
MEANING
MEANING: nothing means anything until I grant it meaning. And I need to structure my life according to a hierarchy of meanings, otherwise it is all pointless. The meaning right now is that things that help me with passion, HONESTY and RECOVERY are meaningful and make me HAPPY.
CONSCIOUS
CONSCIOUS: I need to be present, need to harness the energy of my passion and see the romance in the ordinary by being conscious of the MEANING inherent in everything I do.
BEING PRESENT
BEING PRESENT: is mostly about a lack of intellect. Even when I’m engaging my intellect, I need to be present while engaging it. In other words, I need to be CONSCIOUS of how beautiful and extraordinary the ordinary (work, writing, reading, watching films, conversation) is.
ROUTINE
ROUTINE: I need to create a routine in order to maintain sanity and PASSION.� Routine gives space for things that are sanity/self/recovery -maintaining. Without a routine, I become dismissive of these things and their importance because I ‘run out’ of time for them. I become wasteful, of time, of energy, of passion, of gifts. In order to establish a routine, I need to establish stable work hours as this takes up most of my time.
ROMANCING THE ORDINARY
ROMANCING THE ORDINARY: I am at my happiest when I am BEING PRESENT. And I am present when I am passionate and in love with whatever I am doing at any given time, whether it be work, driving, cooking, cleaning, writing, standing in a queue.
PASSION
PASSION: I’ve been passionate in depression. �I was passionate about being depressed, in pain, miserable. I threw myself into that role. On the other hand I’d lost all passion, become dormant, am now just waking up and passionate, romantic about life and everything in it - ROMANCING THE ORDINARY. Now that I’m in recovery, it’s about a HARNESSING OF ENERGY and channeling it into thoughts and activities that bring me joy, challenge and sanity.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
BEING REACTIVE VS PROACTIVE
Don't wish for things to be easier; wish for yourself to be better at handling things.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
REASON VS BELIEF
Despite our intelligence, our reason, our clinical and analytical minds, at some level we believe. It is this that keeps us sane.
Monday, April 19, 2010
HONESTY WITH SELF
Be honest with yourself, no one else is going to be. And even if they are, you won't believe them.
There is also no one who lies to you as much as you do. And as soon as you start being honest with you, everything that was difficult, an obstacle or holding you back disappears, because it was never there in the first place.
There is also no one who lies to you as much as you do. And as soon as you start being honest with you, everything that was difficult, an obstacle or holding you back disappears, because it was never there in the first place.
Friday, April 16, 2010
AUTHENTIC SELF & THE UNIVERSE
Another best thing about coming out of depression is that you can offer yourself and those close to you your best you; and in return, you get the best of them and the best of the universe. (And if you don't, you're in the best place to handle it).
GOOD/BAD TIMING
'There is no such thing as good or bad timing to a God with no beginning and no end.' AUTHOR UNKNOWN
FRIENDSHIP & BEING AUTHENTIC TO SELF
The best part about coming out of depression and being more authentically yourself than ever before is that you can offer your friends your best you, which makes the relationship so much more balanced. There's more of a give and take. And it's the best feeling!
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
TODAY I STAYED SANE BY:
After leaving work at 10pm and hitting 1 of those 'islands' in the road, reminded myself that it probably was my fault as I was doing something ridiculous like digging in my pocket for my cigarettes, took a deep breath, phoned Roadside Assistance and enjoyed the quiet of the evening, the music on the radio;went with the flow. Instead of seething, kicking the tyre + blaming the street lights, the 'pointless islands' or having to work so late. Which would have made me insane, angry and resentful and would have caused more problems than solutions.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
AMENDS - INCUBUS
'You should make amends with you, if only for better health. And if you really want to live... why not try and make yourself..?' ~ Incubus (Thanks, Tracy! ;) )
THERAPY
BEING SHRINKWRAPPED CAN BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH; CAN CAUSE CONFUSION, SUFFOCATION AND EVEN DEATH
When you’re depressed and/or (is it ever ‘or’) addicted, you are on a path, blindfolded, feeling your way around potentially hazardous terrain.
When you’re in therapy, the therapist can play on of three roles. There are three types of therapists.
Therapist Type 1. This therapist is what I call the ‘passive’ therapist. This therapist is obviously a fan of the anthropological belief that when you are observing a wild animal or an undiscovered tribe, your very observation of them can change that animal or tribesman’s behaviour. So they try to have as little influence as possible, staying as far away from the observed entity as possible, allowing the animal or the tribesman to believe that they are unobserved and can behave naturally. Of course the problem with this theory is that these observers do in fact change the behaviour of the said animal or tribesman by the very nature of their observation, their very stance as observer, the very fact that the observed is being observed. So, these therapists maintain a distance. They do not get involved in any way. They do not offer guidance, advice, sympathy or a negative or positive reaction to anything that you say or do. They believe that by doing this they are allowing you to find your way, your voice, your truth. The problem with this, in the blindfolded in dangerous terrain analogy, is that this therapist is tied to your waist by a rope, walking a few metres behind you. They can see where you’ve come from and where you’re going. They do not warn you about the cliff you’re about to step off, the snake you’re about to step on. And when you do step on the snake, or step off the cliff, they raise an eyebrow and inquire how the bone-shattering, skull-crushing, blood-spattering trip down the cliff was. How did you feel about it? As if this weren’t bad enough, they then, because they’re attached to you via the rope, cause you to be painfully conscious of their presence as an observer. And because they’re not aiding you in any way, or coming to your aid when you fall, you begin to doubt whether they are there at all and whether they can see the cliff, the snake, and if they can, why aren’t they telling you about it? Do they not care? So, this passive therapist causes great feelings of confusion, anxiety, betrayal, abandonment and you are left feeling unHELD (they love that word, but they never do it), uncared for, not seen. This therapist causes more harm than good, because you know that they can see the terrain; you know that they can see the position you’re in; you know that they’re aware of the pain caused by the falls and the bites; and yet they do, say and offer nothing. Being in the terrain, blindfolded, scared, unsure and lost is harrowing enough. But this distanced, aloof and impartial observer magnifies these horrifying feelings, doing nothing to alleviate them.
Therapist Type 2. I call them ‘active’ therapists. This therapist is very similar to Type 1. They have had the same training, but through some trauma of their own, are unable to maintain the appropriate distance so coveted by Type 1. They are not satisfied to be walking behind you, tied to your waist by a rope. They walk with you, next to you, sometimes ahead of you; and at times they hold your hand, give you water, nurse your wounds. They warn you of the obstacles as best they can, cluck and tut and pamper when you are hurt or weary. They are everything that Type 1 lacks. They sympathise, they hold, they cry when you cry, they laugh when you laugh. But they are just as damaging as Type 1. Due to their maternal instincts and nature, they lull you into a false sense that they will be there whenever you need them, that they will catch you when you fall, and that they will be there when you end your journey and you take your blindfold off. And this is misleading and hurtful and damaging. Because it’s a lie. They’re not lying, but out of necessity, due to the very nature of the journey of depression, they cannot help you; it is a journey we have to take alone. So the fact that they offer and promise help only serves to distract you from realising that the very, very alluring promise of their help and support and care is only holding you back from reaching your destination. When they hold your hand on the journey, they are holding you back, not leading you on. When they point out a cliff, it is the same cliff you will fall down when they’re not there; when they bathe your wounds, it is the same wound that will become septic because you cannot care for it yourself.
Therapist Type 3. I’ll call them ‘realist’ therapists. This type, unfortunately, is rare. And I have only come across two in my 10 years of psychiatric institutions, multiple therapists, psychiatrists and other ‘health care’ professionals. They make it very clear that the journey you are on is your own, that they cannot help you, and that you have to fall down the cliff, climb out by yourself, and nurse your own wounds. They are not in the picture frame of the journey at all. They are neither behind you, nor walking next to you holding your hand. They are a voice in your head. A voice that sympathises with the hardship of the journey while at the same time urging you on, because it is a journey that has to take place. They are like a good coach in an endurance marathon: they train you, they make you aware of the obstacles, the hardships, but also the destination; they stimulate hope while not underplaying the endurance it will take you to get there. They warn you about the injuries and they teach you to treat your own wounds. When you are struggling, they urge you on, not by helping in any active way, but they encourage you that you have the strength and the reserves to make it on your own steam. And when you are desperate and want to give up, or you are going too slow or have come to a screeching halt, they give you a good kick up the arse.
When you’re depressed and/or (is it ever ‘or’) addicted, you are on a path, blindfolded, feeling your way around potentially hazardous terrain.
When you’re in therapy, the therapist can play on of three roles. There are three types of therapists.
Therapist Type 1. This therapist is what I call the ‘passive’ therapist. This therapist is obviously a fan of the anthropological belief that when you are observing a wild animal or an undiscovered tribe, your very observation of them can change that animal or tribesman’s behaviour. So they try to have as little influence as possible, staying as far away from the observed entity as possible, allowing the animal or the tribesman to believe that they are unobserved and can behave naturally. Of course the problem with this theory is that these observers do in fact change the behaviour of the said animal or tribesman by the very nature of their observation, their very stance as observer, the very fact that the observed is being observed. So, these therapists maintain a distance. They do not get involved in any way. They do not offer guidance, advice, sympathy or a negative or positive reaction to anything that you say or do. They believe that by doing this they are allowing you to find your way, your voice, your truth. The problem with this, in the blindfolded in dangerous terrain analogy, is that this therapist is tied to your waist by a rope, walking a few metres behind you. They can see where you’ve come from and where you’re going. They do not warn you about the cliff you’re about to step off, the snake you’re about to step on. And when you do step on the snake, or step off the cliff, they raise an eyebrow and inquire how the bone-shattering, skull-crushing, blood-spattering trip down the cliff was. How did you feel about it? As if this weren’t bad enough, they then, because they’re attached to you via the rope, cause you to be painfully conscious of their presence as an observer. And because they’re not aiding you in any way, or coming to your aid when you fall, you begin to doubt whether they are there at all and whether they can see the cliff, the snake, and if they can, why aren’t they telling you about it? Do they not care? So, this passive therapist causes great feelings of confusion, anxiety, betrayal, abandonment and you are left feeling unHELD (they love that word, but they never do it), uncared for, not seen. This therapist causes more harm than good, because you know that they can see the terrain; you know that they can see the position you’re in; you know that they’re aware of the pain caused by the falls and the bites; and yet they do, say and offer nothing. Being in the terrain, blindfolded, scared, unsure and lost is harrowing enough. But this distanced, aloof and impartial observer magnifies these horrifying feelings, doing nothing to alleviate them.
Therapist Type 2. I call them ‘active’ therapists. This therapist is very similar to Type 1. They have had the same training, but through some trauma of their own, are unable to maintain the appropriate distance so coveted by Type 1. They are not satisfied to be walking behind you, tied to your waist by a rope. They walk with you, next to you, sometimes ahead of you; and at times they hold your hand, give you water, nurse your wounds. They warn you of the obstacles as best they can, cluck and tut and pamper when you are hurt or weary. They are everything that Type 1 lacks. They sympathise, they hold, they cry when you cry, they laugh when you laugh. But they are just as damaging as Type 1. Due to their maternal instincts and nature, they lull you into a false sense that they will be there whenever you need them, that they will catch you when you fall, and that they will be there when you end your journey and you take your blindfold off. And this is misleading and hurtful and damaging. Because it’s a lie. They’re not lying, but out of necessity, due to the very nature of the journey of depression, they cannot help you; it is a journey we have to take alone. So the fact that they offer and promise help only serves to distract you from realising that the very, very alluring promise of their help and support and care is only holding you back from reaching your destination. When they hold your hand on the journey, they are holding you back, not leading you on. When they point out a cliff, it is the same cliff you will fall down when they’re not there; when they bathe your wounds, it is the same wound that will become septic because you cannot care for it yourself.
Therapist Type 3. I’ll call them ‘realist’ therapists. This type, unfortunately, is rare. And I have only come across two in my 10 years of psychiatric institutions, multiple therapists, psychiatrists and other ‘health care’ professionals. They make it very clear that the journey you are on is your own, that they cannot help you, and that you have to fall down the cliff, climb out by yourself, and nurse your own wounds. They are not in the picture frame of the journey at all. They are neither behind you, nor walking next to you holding your hand. They are a voice in your head. A voice that sympathises with the hardship of the journey while at the same time urging you on, because it is a journey that has to take place. They are like a good coach in an endurance marathon: they train you, they make you aware of the obstacles, the hardships, but also the destination; they stimulate hope while not underplaying the endurance it will take you to get there. They warn you about the injuries and they teach you to treat your own wounds. When you are struggling, they urge you on, not by helping in any active way, but they encourage you that you have the strength and the reserves to make it on your own steam. And when you are desperate and want to give up, or you are going too slow or have come to a screeching halt, they give you a good kick up the arse.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
MY THEME SONG FOR THE WEEK (PRIME CIRCLE)
HELLO (PRIME CIRCLE)
Release myself from holding back
I realise now my world's not flat
An open mind, an open court
Open runways open the doors
So deep, so dear
So much to do, so little time
I think this just might blow my mind
I hope there's nothing overlooked
Cause I just want to shout out loud
Chorus
Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello
To the world I can't see
I'm in a spin, I'm in a spin
I'm letting go once again
Now that I have been set down
I don't ever want to leave
These things are never all I see
Means so very much to me
There's more to say, more to do
Just give me time, I'll get back to you
I hope there's nothing over looked
'Cause I just want to shout out loud
Chorus
Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello
To the world I can't see
I'm in a spin, I'm in a spin
I'm letting go once again
Now that I have been set down
I don't ever want to leave
These things are never all I see
Means so very much to me
And I won't waste another day
Holding back on everything I say
You see I'm through, done now
And I'm happier
Something's got to change (got to change)
Something's got to go my way (my way)
I can't see it's all just a dream
You see, I'm inside out
I'm looking up but falling down
I can't see in you
So come on over, come and say your...
Chorus
Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello
To the world I can't see
I'm in a spin, I'm in a spin
I'm letting go once again
Now that I have been set down
I don't ever want to leave
These things are never all I see
Means so very much to me
Release myself from holding back
I realise now my world's not flat
An open mind, an open court
Open runways open the doors
So deep, so dear
So much to do, so little time
I think this just might blow my mind
I hope there's nothing overlooked
Cause I just want to shout out loud
Chorus
Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello
To the world I can't see
I'm in a spin, I'm in a spin
I'm letting go once again
Now that I have been set down
I don't ever want to leave
These things are never all I see
Means so very much to me
There's more to say, more to do
Just give me time, I'll get back to you
I hope there's nothing over looked
'Cause I just want to shout out loud
Chorus
Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello
To the world I can't see
I'm in a spin, I'm in a spin
I'm letting go once again
Now that I have been set down
I don't ever want to leave
These things are never all I see
Means so very much to me
And I won't waste another day
Holding back on everything I say
You see I'm through, done now
And I'm happier
Something's got to change (got to change)
Something's got to go my way (my way)
I can't see it's all just a dream
You see, I'm inside out
I'm looking up but falling down
I can't see in you
So come on over, come and say your...
Chorus
Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello
To the world I can't see
I'm in a spin, I'm in a spin
I'm letting go once again
Now that I have been set down
I don't ever want to leave
These things are never all I see
Means so very much to me
Sunday, April 4, 2010
OTHERS' OPINIONS AND LIVING A LIFE OF INTEGRITY
If you are an extraordinary and exceptional person, do not censor yourself out of a need to protect yourself from others' criticism. Others' narrow-mindedness/judgements/misunderstanding of you, what you say, what you believe and what you do should not deter you from living your best life and doing what makes you happy. As long as your life is an act of integrity and a pursuit of happiness that does not harm anyone else, others' thoughts about that life are inconsequential.
Friday, April 2, 2010
TRUSTING OTHERS VS PROTECTING YOURSELF
Always remember that there is more good to another person than you think; but do not forget that there is also a lot of bad. It's a continuous and delicate dance of trusting others vs protecting yourself.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
AWARENESS OF PAST MEANS AWARENESS OF PRESENT
It's always good to keep in mind EXACTLY where we've come from so that we can keep in mind EXACTLY where we are now.
LOONY BINS
When I was admitted to Tara (for the 3rd time, in 2007), I did not tell them that I had been taking the Xanor, simply because I did not think it was an issue. I did not realise that I was physically addicted to the drug and that I would have very serious withdrawals. My blood pressure became dangerously high and I was exceedingly anxious, all of the time. The most disturbing symptom was that my skin, all over my body, was numb. You know when you play ‘dead man’s finger’? Or when you touch somebody else’s skin, and you can’t feel their leg or arm or whatever feeling your finger? Well, that’s what it felt like. My whole body, when I touched it, did not respond to that touch. My face could not feel the hand touching it. That freaked me out! And because I did not know the reason for these symptoms, I did not know how to handle them. And because the staff there did not know about the Xanor, they could not help me either. So I just became very disconnected, disassociated and thoughts of doing serious damage to myself entered my mind more and more. The staff had no option but to commit me.
Sterkfontein was a nightmare. I will enter into it in more detail in another piece, but for now, suffice it to say that it is summed up in the following: no stimulation outside of schizophrenics who cannot talk to you and nurses who lock themselves up in the office to protect themselves from the patients; Auschwitz-like bath scenes where everyone is stripped, in a queue, awaiting a supervised shower; communal toothbrushes handed out after the shower; being herded into a room after ridiculously early ablutions to await breakfast, only to be herded into the same room after breakfast to await lunch, and nothing in that room. Nothing. Just chairs, four walls, you and about 50 schizophrenics, and cigarettes. This meal, herding, sitting, smoking regime fills (what an inappropriate word for what seems like a vacuum of eternity) the day. Your cellphone, jewellery and all personal effects, including clothing, are stripped from you when you arrive. So you cannot even sms or phone your loved ones to tell them that you are there, which ward you are in and when they can come and visit. I clung onto my toothbrush, roll-on, cigarettes and a pair of underwear that I washed each evening as like the life-jackets that they really, really were. The other women had none of these luxuries, and it is no wonder that they could not maintain sanity when all individuality and dignity was stripped from them. And all of this in the face of the knowledge that you cannot sign yourself out or get a family member to sign you out. You are there until a psychiatrist thinks you are sane. And when no one can define ‘sanity’ or ‘normal’ outside of those walls, the thought that you’re in there until someone within those walls declares you ‘sane’ or ‘normal’ is not very comforting. Sheer panic was a feeling I lived with each minute of each day of the five very long weeks I was there.
But I survived. I overcame. And I am a better person for that stay. I still have post-traumatic –like flashbacks to that time. I cannot bear the smell of a burning cigarette butt because the patients were so desperate for cigarettes they smoked even the filter. But mostly it’s a highly original and show-stopping anecdote over a couple of drinks.
I found a story I wrote while I was in Helen Joseph’s psychiatric ward (very similar to Joburg Gen’s psych ward and Sterkfontein) and the immediacy of what I wrote that night in that ward might be more indicative of the experience of a psych ward:
“IN PHENIGAN’S WAKE 3.03.2007
(Phenigan is an antihistamine which, in large doses, is used as a tranquiliser in psychiatric wards, rather than the usual Xanor and its variants, as it is not addictive. I also think I am correct in assuming that it is cheaper, hence its ubiquity in South African governmental institutions.)
The difference between crazy people and normal people is not what you might think. It’s some of those things: yes, they see reality in ‘distorted’ ways; yes, they take blades to their wrists, steak-knives to their throats, they burn themselves down to the bone with cigarettes; yes, they hear the voice of Jesus and answer only to the name ‘Mary’; yes, they experience life mostly as a constant and unremitting shit-storm. Yes, they do and experience all of these things, and that’s what makes them insane and you normal.
But the real difference between the sane and the mad is the language they speak: the sane speak English, French, Chinese or Zulu; the crazy speak in the language of cigarettes. The societal structures, roles and conventions of the ward are much like society outside of these barred windows and doors. The power-play is just as present. Just as insidious.
Upon entering the ward, it is not your name, or even your reason for being there that is important, or of any concern. It is your cigarette status:
1. do you smoke?
2. if so, do you have any?
3. if so, will you give/sell (overwhelmingly option a) them to me?
Your status is determined within seconds. And word spreads. If you’re known as a carrier, you are approached constantly. Whether you say yes or no is inconsequential. They will keep asking, more so if you make the mistake of saying yes the first time you’re asked. It’s like feeding a dog off your plate one time. Just that one time. From then on, that dog will sit at your feet, staring pleadingly, then barking, sometimes ferociously, until you feed them again.
The hierarchy in this place is based on two criteria. The first, from the outsider’s perspective, seems to be the most distinctive: there are those of the frothing-at-the-mouth variety who are in a constant state of legal, governmental induced intoxication. They come off the street, their schizophrenia, paranoia and psychosis induced by heroine, crack, alcohol or marijuana. Here, their schizophrenia, paranoia and psychoses are perpetuated by seroquel, risperdal and lithium. You can tell them by the look in their eyes; the glazed, dead-pan marble. They have that constant look of being perplexed. As if someone has just asked them the meaning of the universe. Their mouths open, their heads down and slightly askew. They shuffle endlessly around the ward in shoes they’ve stolen from someone outside, or some unwitting and even more doped-up inmate inside. Or they walk around barefeet, their heels cracked and crusted from pacing the sleekly polished ward floors
Then there are the garden-variety of depressives, bi-polars, failed suicides: people who are just “Taking a bit of a break, a rest, to get their medication stabilised.” You can tell them from the street-clothes they wear. They only don their pyjamas at the civilised and agreed upon hour. Unless they smoke, or one of them are in your section of the ward, you only see them at communal gathering times: meal times or pill times. They seem strangely incongruous here, in this place, as if they’re undercover nurses, gathering info on the other patients for the matron. They are friendly, but quiet and keep to themselves.
There are, of course, the liminal – those that are difficult to distinguish and place in one of these two categories. You warily strike up a conversation, trying to determine whether you’re dealing with a pseudo-nurse or a psychopath. And trust me, it’s fucken difficult! If someone in a nuthouse tells you their name is Andrew and they’re a librarian or a fashion designer, how do you know he’s telling the truth? You don’t. There is no truth in here. The only truth, the only meaning and stability is the Brooklax-induced certainty of meds and mealtimes.
It is the second criteria for the hierarchy of this place which is the more powerful, the more insidious in the hierarchisation of the ward. It is this criterion that determines your place in the caste system. It is the same criterion as in the larger society – the haves and the have nots: those that have cigarettes, and those that don’t.
It is this 5cm cylindrical carcinogen that wields the power, regulates the ward, determines the rules. It’s the same as in prison. Cigarettes become the power tool, the bartering chip, the only intelligible language. It’s strange, isn’t it, this common element of cigarettes in the institutions of jails and nuthouses? I have my own little anthropological theory about that. (My meds make it difficult to concentrate, think and remember, but I know my little theory had something to do with the prison and the loony-bin as microcosms of societal structure and interaction between humans. I remember some ingenious thought I had about cigarettes being the lowest common denominator of the unhappy, the rejected, the scapegoated. I remember thinking that Claude Levi-Strauss would have been proud.)
More than any sedative or mood stabiliser, it is the cigarette that determines the placidity or paroxysms of madness of the inmates. The first rule is, do not, under any circumstances carry more than two cigarettes with you. You learn this rule within the first half an hour from one of the arse-licking pseudo-nurses. So you walk into the cramped, un-airconditioned smoking cell and you light up. The vultures appear from their wards, as if the meal-time bell has been rung, scurry, then settle, begging you for just one cigarette. “Just one gwaai, my sister, just one, my people are coming tomorrow and its been so hard without a smoke, so hard, so hard, they’re coming tomorrow and I’ll give you a cig sister and they’re bringing coke too and I’ll give you some coke too, thank you sister thank you so much, they just left me here with no clothes no cigarettes but they promised they’re coming tomorrow, tomorrow or the next day, maybe Saturday but they definitely coming sister and then Ill give you something sister god bless you.” Depending on your mood, or more to the point, just to shut them up, you either give them the cigarette you’re not smoking, or you break it in half so that you can get rid of two crazies at one time; or, you simply shake your head, let them watch as you smoke both, leaving them behind to fight over the smouldering butt.
Which group do I belong to? The mouth-frothers or the garden-variety pseudo-nurses? Well, I have cigarettes. I don’t hear voices (William Burroughs’ doesn’t count. If it were Jesus’ or Alistair Crowley’s, that would be a different matter). I realise that the fact that I’m in a loony bin might be a bit incriminating in terms of my sanity status. And I know what you’re thinking. Unfortunately you’re just going to have to take my word for it.”
Sterkfontein was a nightmare. I will enter into it in more detail in another piece, but for now, suffice it to say that it is summed up in the following: no stimulation outside of schizophrenics who cannot talk to you and nurses who lock themselves up in the office to protect themselves from the patients; Auschwitz-like bath scenes where everyone is stripped, in a queue, awaiting a supervised shower; communal toothbrushes handed out after the shower; being herded into a room after ridiculously early ablutions to await breakfast, only to be herded into the same room after breakfast to await lunch, and nothing in that room. Nothing. Just chairs, four walls, you and about 50 schizophrenics, and cigarettes. This meal, herding, sitting, smoking regime fills (what an inappropriate word for what seems like a vacuum of eternity) the day. Your cellphone, jewellery and all personal effects, including clothing, are stripped from you when you arrive. So you cannot even sms or phone your loved ones to tell them that you are there, which ward you are in and when they can come and visit. I clung onto my toothbrush, roll-on, cigarettes and a pair of underwear that I washed each evening as like the life-jackets that they really, really were. The other women had none of these luxuries, and it is no wonder that they could not maintain sanity when all individuality and dignity was stripped from them. And all of this in the face of the knowledge that you cannot sign yourself out or get a family member to sign you out. You are there until a psychiatrist thinks you are sane. And when no one can define ‘sanity’ or ‘normal’ outside of those walls, the thought that you’re in there until someone within those walls declares you ‘sane’ or ‘normal’ is not very comforting. Sheer panic was a feeling I lived with each minute of each day of the five very long weeks I was there.
But I survived. I overcame. And I am a better person for that stay. I still have post-traumatic –like flashbacks to that time. I cannot bear the smell of a burning cigarette butt because the patients were so desperate for cigarettes they smoked even the filter. But mostly it’s a highly original and show-stopping anecdote over a couple of drinks.
I found a story I wrote while I was in Helen Joseph’s psychiatric ward (very similar to Joburg Gen’s psych ward and Sterkfontein) and the immediacy of what I wrote that night in that ward might be more indicative of the experience of a psych ward:
“IN PHENIGAN’S WAKE 3.03.2007
(Phenigan is an antihistamine which, in large doses, is used as a tranquiliser in psychiatric wards, rather than the usual Xanor and its variants, as it is not addictive. I also think I am correct in assuming that it is cheaper, hence its ubiquity in South African governmental institutions.)
The difference between crazy people and normal people is not what you might think. It’s some of those things: yes, they see reality in ‘distorted’ ways; yes, they take blades to their wrists, steak-knives to their throats, they burn themselves down to the bone with cigarettes; yes, they hear the voice of Jesus and answer only to the name ‘Mary’; yes, they experience life mostly as a constant and unremitting shit-storm. Yes, they do and experience all of these things, and that’s what makes them insane and you normal.
But the real difference between the sane and the mad is the language they speak: the sane speak English, French, Chinese or Zulu; the crazy speak in the language of cigarettes. The societal structures, roles and conventions of the ward are much like society outside of these barred windows and doors. The power-play is just as present. Just as insidious.
Upon entering the ward, it is not your name, or even your reason for being there that is important, or of any concern. It is your cigarette status:
1. do you smoke?
2. if so, do you have any?
3. if so, will you give/sell (overwhelmingly option a) them to me?
Your status is determined within seconds. And word spreads. If you’re known as a carrier, you are approached constantly. Whether you say yes or no is inconsequential. They will keep asking, more so if you make the mistake of saying yes the first time you’re asked. It’s like feeding a dog off your plate one time. Just that one time. From then on, that dog will sit at your feet, staring pleadingly, then barking, sometimes ferociously, until you feed them again.
The hierarchy in this place is based on two criteria. The first, from the outsider’s perspective, seems to be the most distinctive: there are those of the frothing-at-the-mouth variety who are in a constant state of legal, governmental induced intoxication. They come off the street, their schizophrenia, paranoia and psychosis induced by heroine, crack, alcohol or marijuana. Here, their schizophrenia, paranoia and psychoses are perpetuated by seroquel, risperdal and lithium. You can tell them by the look in their eyes; the glazed, dead-pan marble. They have that constant look of being perplexed. As if someone has just asked them the meaning of the universe. Their mouths open, their heads down and slightly askew. They shuffle endlessly around the ward in shoes they’ve stolen from someone outside, or some unwitting and even more doped-up inmate inside. Or they walk around barefeet, their heels cracked and crusted from pacing the sleekly polished ward floors
Then there are the garden-variety of depressives, bi-polars, failed suicides: people who are just “Taking a bit of a break, a rest, to get their medication stabilised.” You can tell them from the street-clothes they wear. They only don their pyjamas at the civilised and agreed upon hour. Unless they smoke, or one of them are in your section of the ward, you only see them at communal gathering times: meal times or pill times. They seem strangely incongruous here, in this place, as if they’re undercover nurses, gathering info on the other patients for the matron. They are friendly, but quiet and keep to themselves.
There are, of course, the liminal – those that are difficult to distinguish and place in one of these two categories. You warily strike up a conversation, trying to determine whether you’re dealing with a pseudo-nurse or a psychopath. And trust me, it’s fucken difficult! If someone in a nuthouse tells you their name is Andrew and they’re a librarian or a fashion designer, how do you know he’s telling the truth? You don’t. There is no truth in here. The only truth, the only meaning and stability is the Brooklax-induced certainty of meds and mealtimes.
It is the second criteria for the hierarchy of this place which is the more powerful, the more insidious in the hierarchisation of the ward. It is this criterion that determines your place in the caste system. It is the same criterion as in the larger society – the haves and the have nots: those that have cigarettes, and those that don’t.
It is this 5cm cylindrical carcinogen that wields the power, regulates the ward, determines the rules. It’s the same as in prison. Cigarettes become the power tool, the bartering chip, the only intelligible language. It’s strange, isn’t it, this common element of cigarettes in the institutions of jails and nuthouses? I have my own little anthropological theory about that. (My meds make it difficult to concentrate, think and remember, but I know my little theory had something to do with the prison and the loony-bin as microcosms of societal structure and interaction between humans. I remember some ingenious thought I had about cigarettes being the lowest common denominator of the unhappy, the rejected, the scapegoated. I remember thinking that Claude Levi-Strauss would have been proud.)
More than any sedative or mood stabiliser, it is the cigarette that determines the placidity or paroxysms of madness of the inmates. The first rule is, do not, under any circumstances carry more than two cigarettes with you. You learn this rule within the first half an hour from one of the arse-licking pseudo-nurses. So you walk into the cramped, un-airconditioned smoking cell and you light up. The vultures appear from their wards, as if the meal-time bell has been rung, scurry, then settle, begging you for just one cigarette. “Just one gwaai, my sister, just one, my people are coming tomorrow and its been so hard without a smoke, so hard, so hard, they’re coming tomorrow and I’ll give you a cig sister and they’re bringing coke too and I’ll give you some coke too, thank you sister thank you so much, they just left me here with no clothes no cigarettes but they promised they’re coming tomorrow, tomorrow or the next day, maybe Saturday but they definitely coming sister and then Ill give you something sister god bless you.” Depending on your mood, or more to the point, just to shut them up, you either give them the cigarette you’re not smoking, or you break it in half so that you can get rid of two crazies at one time; or, you simply shake your head, let them watch as you smoke both, leaving them behind to fight over the smouldering butt.
Which group do I belong to? The mouth-frothers or the garden-variety pseudo-nurses? Well, I have cigarettes. I don’t hear voices (William Burroughs’ doesn’t count. If it were Jesus’ or Alistair Crowley’s, that would be a different matter). I realise that the fact that I’m in a loony bin might be a bit incriminating in terms of my sanity status. And I know what you’re thinking. Unfortunately you’re just going to have to take my word for it.”
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