writing about my life

Psychiatric Stigma

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Mass society interferes with my personal relationships. My stigmatised status affects the dynamics of how even friends and family treat me, there is no tribe membership or belonging I can seem to find because normal bonds have been trumped by the stigma with which my identity in larger society is marked. I seem to be permitted no natural solidarity or ordinary means of emotional support. These possibilities evaporate due to the fact that I am classified as abnormal by the system.

This state sanctioned definition of the person as a lesser is portrayed as unquestionably “objective” and because apparently vouchsafed by the “scientific” knowledge of psychiatry is never admitted as a mere social label of deviancy, but rather as a concrete fact of the world.

When the stuffing is knocked out of you you do not manifest the aggression to enforce your separateness, all encounters with you are too immediate. the proximate human is in your face perpetually, and you in theirs. If i seek the truth about this situation I am on my own, forcibly isolated by the structures around me. I may claim for example to be the recipient of a certain degree of neurological damage, which I allege is from 20 years of psychiatric drugs, this claim is conceded in some quarters but many, the hardcore, would rather believe I have nutted myself with drugs and alcohol.

Schizophrenia is defined as disintegration of personality, when really what has disintegrated is the false self of separateness and non-human unreachability which is part of psychological normality.

Also because intellectual knowledge and skill is seen as a form of capital, the schizo is not permitted to be at all “wealthy” in these traits. Thus as brainwashing occurs, conforming thoughts are implanted, and you are urged to make these thoughts your own. This is spiritual slavery, increased by the administration of psychologically suppressing drugs that facilitate my compliance.

So what to do?

I try to bolster my independence and obtain money, stay mobile and live under the radar building a circle of “the wise”.

And finally I ask: is all this the paranoid perception of a non-trusting person, an ailment of the mind? or do I have some legitimacy in saying how I feel. Conventional thinking will tell me this is all subjective, while objectivity is not in my hands. But I hear my hesitant voice screaming this out while I sleepwalk.

Science tells me that logically based knowledge is transferrable socially, but that personal knowledge only works for you. To forbid apparently illogical personal theories, is done by people who assert they are a selfish malfunction, or that Logic is a divine law never to be infringed. But our thoughts about what constitutes reality are generated by our persons… our thoughts are coloured by our nature, our blindnesses our failings.

We then enshrine and subsequently enforce our fallible notions as “truth”. men of different lots have qualitatively different experiences of, and sentiments about, life. But I am just not on the map at all. There’s always a patsy!

The number of attacks, the sheer number of them I’ve received, make me “interesting” to some of the kinder ones. The arthritic neck leaving a head that can turn only 20 degrees at a time makes me like Steve… Steve who also had Carolyn.

Mystery purveyors have lodged in my mind as voices…this is my characteristic struggle. I discover the body’s mystery, breathing and going soft, every movement previously so wooden and dignified.

I speak to the voice:

“the great song of the heart is never wasted, it is delectable to the gods!” I cry.

It hisses back: “No fool, all those atoms bumping around in your brain are merely matter. They are empty and whatever paltry computations that result are retained and enclosed within your skull. They can never emerge to change the granite nature of the justly ordered world, all your vain hopes are wasted. Your vision of good will never triumph. The world is a system of mechanics, and it is to that cruelty that I pledge myself!”

This is way too honest for a psychiatrist!

Not only is it my inclination to speak in archaic language,I also bet on it as a good strategy. After all no christian familiar with the scriptures would deny that the high english of the King James does not lend a certain credibility to the supposedly eternal truths within the book. So also I mythologise this mucky business of being called crazy.

And what have we learned? Don’t trust the fuckers.


Written by Luke Dunn

January 17, 2015 at 1:09 pm

Posted in Prose

Tagged with ,

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