Last week Saturday, without warning, we were transferred from the assessment ward to a “proper” ward. Maybe the catalyst was the improvised “wrist slicing”, which followed the “knuckle-crunching” (wall-punching.) It is a difficult tale but one worth telling
I was in the hall way, in the morning, waiting for someone to call me for breakfast? why not just ask? In response, I wonder, why do doors have keys. I am, after all, writing today, October 19th – the day they will be holding the anarchist book fair in East London, St Mary. To continue, as a child, I had issues with “disconnect”. It persists today. I have always had this issue with enstrangement; with being marginalised, rather than rhetorically, “misunderstood.” It is not that; it is that I am beyond lost; I am OMALONE1, 0/O – which 1? M. Alone: “the strongest man in the world is he who stands Most ALONE. So that explains the backcronym. To continue, one day, a long time ago, I recall remaining in my bedroom, awaiting mother – or someone – to call, or at least check on me. I waited in that room for what seemed like hours until it finally occurred to be that I had been abandoned. I was not wanted; I was not regarded; I was not taken seriously as someone to respond to; I was a joke.
Throughout my life, this has left a lasting impression, and formed a legacy; one of disinterest and disconnect.
I guess, somewhere along the line, I withdrew and gave up on people sensing “books” (objects) were just more reliable – they were the only “subjects”, with topics I could trust.
I could only tolerate people who made a serious attempt, and dedicated effort to involve themselves in my life – other than that, I have been much like the Script’s man who could not be moved.
This has meant that for many years, people have been insulted by a mixture of being overlooked (invisible) or being ignored. Added to my underdevelopment, and cognitive obsession – which has meant I was the centre of the universe – I was very much, an annoying oddity.
I left people with the impression they were not important – or that they did not exist in their world, and yet, reflecting on experience, it only reflects the experience of learning that I did not exist in theirs.
Just as Seymour Fischer explored in his classic “Understanding the Female Orgasm”, abandonment is a difficult, lonely road.
Even in one episode of Tracy Beaker, I recall one of the “adoptees” proverbially “misbehaving” – a word I am bitterly against, just as I am against the words “naughty”, “rude”, “respect”, “unity” and other associated sophisms. Towards the end of the episode, jumping ahead, the girl “took initiative” and packed her bags, ready to supposedly move on to another home; that was until her journey was interrupted – girl, interrupted.
She was informed that at the home, they did not just give up on people like that. They encouraged the girl by implying it would take a lot more to be abandoned (expelled), and yet, what didn’t sit, is that one of the house members said that the children all had “chances.” This disgusted me. Just as Napoleon Hill MIGHT advance, you cannot play a guessing game with a child. It has to go beyond a commitment and be a DEVOTION. After the child, all bridges must be burnt, irrespective – or at least, perhaps that would have worked with me.
As you might imagine, after a schooling incident – one in a long line – I was eventually “expelled” from the home, at the same time I was “suspended” (expelled) from the school. I went to live with my mothers friend for a few months before I somehow managed to smuggle myself into my fathers home, in an “exchange” (stay) which lasted for at least four years. (At the time, there were custody issues I was later to learn as well as financial issues of child benefit which were in dispute.)
Coming home, better yet, shifting emphasis, to continue, I have had issues with disconnect which has meant that I have needed people to “reach out” to me, to “intervene” through “outreach” and “pull” me in, which is why, when I was not called for “food,” my world fell apart as “psychosis” erupted.
I was to go beyond: to search for meaning; to attain that freedom from the known
Eventually realising I would not be called, I decided to rebel against this death sentence; against this life imprisonment, and so, I “concluded” I needed to go beyond PAIN!.
I recalled all the talk about “training”, and drew upon my semi-catholic upbringing which espoused the virtues of “discipline” (self-mortification.) Thinking back to the Jean-Claud films, as well as Karate Kd 3, and a recent chat with a cousin and a friend, I committed to blood.
Blood had been the issue throughout my life. I was afraid to cut as I did not want to bleed, and yet, without blood, in this climate of death, with its obsession with necrophilia, the only people who seem to be recognised – apart from single, pregnant females – are those drug and alcohol addicted, as well as the suicidal, severely, and chronically depressed who express their malady as , and when, they bleed!
I realised that I would only be taken seriously, and RESPONDED TO, once I let my wrist bleed, and so I said, “there must be blood.”
At first, it was a small hit, with a few seconds recovery, but it gradually developed into five hits per hand, then ten hits, until, as you would imagine, I was informed I was causing a disturbance by creating too much noise, and yet, by then, I had my mind made up.
I went back to my quarters and became “destructive” viciously striking the plastic encasing which covers our cages and allows staff to spectate, and be voyeurs, checking on their circus property, at an hourly rate – or to serve food to us wild beasts, when we are in semi-seclusion.
Eventually, however, this unthinkable happened. No, my wrist did not bleed, but I had a small cut. The staff member who had earlier threatened me with seclusion changed his mind when I ceased this obsession and ran to the front desk begging, pleading, and nearly grovelling to be placed in the seclusion room. Instead, all they could suggest/offer, was the alternative of the “de-escalation room” – with all its dreaded, and criminally torrid/repression connotations. I didn’t so much decline to the latent horror, but insisted upon the staff members initial threat that I be placed in the seclusion room. Eventually, the female a the front desk refused, and became obstinate, prompting me to commit to remaining at the front desk until I was placed in seclusion. I lay on the ground, insisting I would remain until I was placed in seclusion, to which she initially was fine with, only, once I lay on the ground, her tone changed, and she claimed I was being a “baby.” (Expect this verbal torment from “care-givers” in NHS institutions; the very institutions which function so “effectively”, they are officially delegated, and attached to an IMHA (Independent Mental Health Advocate.)
It was quite strange, for, like Szasz, I have many objections to this term, and the whole concept and perception of “children” which is implicit within our largely coded language, and which creates, a situationist phenomena we might “maturely”, as adults, refer to as “non-specific, object-seeking, language-functions.” Better put, as the senator did in Bulworth, NSOSLF refers to “indirect speech” or “evasive communication.”
Shifting emphasis, to continue, it was decided that I should be plastered, and yet, the first victory had already been achieved. I had bled.
It was time for the next move; to destroy, and so, the mirror was torn from the wall – unfortunately, there was not a camera behind it – and the wood was pulled from the wardrobe. Suddenly, they realised I was, someone
requiring urgent intervention and care damaging hospital property.
Their response was to turn my wardrobe around so that i could not hurt myself on the expose nails, but it only left me with a better idea? Improvised Cutting!
Using a tool I had crafted and conjured, I slashed myself across the left wrist. The first time this had been done, however, having mustered and discovered this new courage, I was brave enough to take this trivial commitment. These first impressions were not very committal, however, when I turned to the right arm, “I went in” and did a left a considerable mark! I then returned to attend to my left arm, and left a scar which up until now, is still engraved. (Maybe I will tat’ over these battle scars.)
Mind you, the attention did not come, but, that aside, I went further, and theoretically pulled the wardrobe “over” me. A staff member came and lambasted me for this, however, the same “professional” was to finally RESPOND when he came in much later and “caught me” in the act of a filmed/staged execution.
Using another improvised device, and having appropriately aligned my video camera, I wrapped a cord around my neck and made various, difficult attempts at self stangulation. It was very difficult as I needed to get it around Mr Adam if I had any chance of “blacking out”, however, at what was probably the 5th attempt, staff arrived, dashed in, sounded the alarm and “intervened.” At last, there was a connect.
I was moved to close observation/1-2-1, which meant that I was to be followed for a week. (In prison, I think, they refer to this as “suicide watch”.)
Eventually, when I “convinced” the staff that I was “well” enough – meaning, less suicidal, – I was taken off close-up, and soon after, transferred to a serious, or at least, “proper” ward. (I’ll leave you, the reader, to guess its name.)
Here I am, writing today, having forgotten the initial purpose of this post, but taking this new opportunity to report on my silence.
I am a selective mute, as might be better explained by the reality I am a cantankerous curmudgeon, a neo-nihilistic anarchist, and critical cynic, as well as a menacing misanthrope. In revenge, I devote myself to terrorise, traduce and torment people – those I want to suffer to the extent I have been damaged by a world of idiots incapable of realising my elite talents – consequentially, I, philosopher king, see no “problem” with Noble Lies, for as Manly Palmer might similarly contest, some people are just so incompetent, they are not worthy of honesty.
I must therefore hide my true thoughts from the world, living a life of masquerade, of performance; of hysterical histrionics; I must profile, front, “stunt” and “feign.” I must be an image; a living disguise, for when I am not a recluse, I must “tolerate” the outside world, and smile along with their radical victimisation.
Yes, there are few of equal/similar intelligence, and yet, the drop off is so radical that I must surely be forgiven for my paternal condescension and veiled contempt.
I despise these imbeciles, and morons, and only wish I was part of that elusive bourgeois that would enable me to be appreciated, valued and recognised, if not only rewarded and compensated for all these years of independent, autodidact study, and academic devotion, along with this aptitude for scholarship. Maybe a sponsorship is due, and yet, barred from that echelon, and condemned to the banal mediocrity and sheer folly of the common plebs, people like me will always be victimised, hence, I find myself here, and hence, I often prefer to go through the day just marvelling at the other circus spectacles, and imaging, as Mr Maddox says, if these people were birds, they would be flying backwards
I was stability and permanence. I was guarantee. I want status. I want to travel and move. I want autonomy. I want my own home. I want something of my own, buy instead. I am left with nothingness