About a week ago, I received an email from someone I did not know, responding to a reply to All I had made to a forward from an old Birmingham, Alabama friend. Turned out, the new correspondent’s doctor when she was a kid was my uncle, Leo Bashinsky, who was my doctor, and my children’s doctor. We chatted back and forth several times, and I started to feel maybe we were getting into why she and I had connected. Before dawn of the day she first wrote to me, the fellow who had sent the forward came to me in a dream and told me there was something coming for me to deal with. I put hers in italics, to distinguish from mine.
FYI, yesterday, I put up a new page at goodmorningbirmingham.com re my brother Major’s death in March 2010:
Major Bashinsky – Legal Schnauzer v. Bash, Jefferson County Coroner and Birmingham Police Department
But not without plenty of struggle.
Hey Sloan – read your post and have to say it’s wow – pretty heavy. Easy to understand the conflicted feelings/hauntings. Not something that can readily be put to rest. Will get back later – grandson & his fiance will be arriving shortly but did want to say hi.
Hi. Yeah, heavy. Perhaps more tomorrow. And something plenty heavy down here, too, perhaps for tomorrow also. Feel like I swallowed Chernobyl. Sloan
Sloan – hope the past couple of days have been more peaceful ones for you. The dreams and messages you describe seem anything but. My days may be considered dull & inconsequential by comparison but at least I typically sleep well and without interrupting disturbances. Night after night of what you write about would – well, I would be a total basket case and likely a completely useless individual! Just sounds exhausting and void of the health benefits associated with therapeutic sleep! You should be kinder to yourself! Funny – a former close friend, a university professor who was usually quite uptight would eventually, after a drink or two say, “There should be no shoulds”! How unrealistic but then many of us impose such self restrictions that we can easily lose who we truly are. Hmmm
I am a total basket case, because this is my line of work, what you read that I post to my websites. There is no way to turn it off, because it is given to me by my angel handlers. Given to me externally and internally, the two play out in tandem. Leaves me in great spirits and physically clobbered – great spirits a joke, physically clobbered not a joke. Nothing I learned at Ramsay High, or in other schools of this world, was preparation. Nothing really comparable in the Bible, either. Best analogy is what shamans experience, but appears to be more involved and in some ways different. Seems the angels dreamt up a special program to try out on me. Used to be I was sort of glad, felt a sense of worth. Today, I just hope it’s over soon. That I don’t wake up tomorrow. From time to time people pray for me, for me to sleep better, for me to get a break. Typically, it gets harder on me after that. So I took to asking people not to pray for me. Yeah, I know this is reading like something out of Bryce. Perhaps I should wish it is out of Bryce. Alas, it is not.
OK, so no prayers per your request. Still, times of peacefulness should be in order – or an order! Not to worry – think I heard that Bryce is no longer in operation as sadly, so many mental health services have suffered such severe slicing that those in need are virtually unable to access appropriate assistance. Saw this happen over the years here and then there are those dually diagnosed – developmental disabilities as well as psychiatric diagnoses. Try finding services to address their complex issues – next to impossible and if located, many providers of those services are inadequate and primarily interested in filling deep pockets.
Btw – what is a “Birmingham ex pat”?
I had heard Bryce is no more, used it as a “figure of speech.”
I did a field residency in psychiatry once upon a time, all budding psychiatrists should be so fortunate. Serious eye-opener. Learned the field is still in the stone age, barbaric, clueless.
Went down to Bryce once with some friends, to visit with a young man staying there. Over a game of pool in the rec hall, he said it wasn’t a very nice place.
What I put up today began thus:
“As I watched the newish moon rise over Venus yesterday evening, I recalled Luna is a name sometimes used for the moon. Then I recalled lunatic is derived from Luna. Then I connected some dots and noted lunacy is the result of serious disturbance in the feminine aspect of a person. Same applies to a country. Same applies to a species. In this case, homo sapiens. But that’s too broad a topic to cover today …”
When psychiatry understands what causes lunacy, it will be a much kinder, gentler, and far more effective discipline. Maybe developmental disabilities, aside from birth defects, physical brain trauma, have much the same root cause.
Have attempted to treat a few mental health workers, including psychiatrists, psychologists, clinical social workers. Some asked me to attempt to treat them, some asked but did not know they asked.
A Birmingham ex pat is someone from Birmingham living somewhere else, say, Cullman, Atlanta, Dallas.
An American ex pat is someone from USA living in, say, Costa Rica, Siberia, Tasmania.
I am a Birmingham and an American ex pat, living in The Asteroid Belt, aka, The State Mental.
Got that – my comment about Bryce was meant to be tongue in cheek with no intent to imply otherwise! Just made me think about our current state of mental health services or lack thereof. The field of psychiatry is a very challenging one and I can appreciate the difficulties in diagnosing. What do they have other than the patient’s description of s/s which could well be inaccurate, exaggerated or as we often found, dependent on reports from a family member or caregiver. Not saying those reports aren’t worthwhile but often they are simply clues with much left uncovered and assisted in not much more than a guessing game when it came to diagnosing and prescribing meds. With no xrays or other such objective information accurately & readily available, determining an appropriate plan of care is often a shot in the dark. I will say that we were so fortunate to have an excellent full time psychiatrist, who was not in the business to gain wealth(obviously), was impressively knowledgeable and was truly caring and compassionate, traits not always found in our present health care professionals.
I accept that I am a Birmingham ex pat – ignorance or curiosity says to ask if “pat” is an acronym ?!!!
I think maybe ex-pat is short for ex-patriot. When I was in Costa Rica in 2000, I found three American ex-pat communities, they referred to themselves in that way, in the three places I stayed: San Jose (the large city and capitol), Dominical and San Isidro.
I suppose telling someone they have a brain chemical disorder, instead of they have a psychosis, is kinder. However, treating the brain chemical disorder with chemicals misses the point entirely: What is causing the brain chemical disorder?
Sometimes the cause is physical, say a brain injury or chemical poisoning or lousy diet.
Often, though, psychosis is in the soul. That can be treated, but not by human methods.
Then, there is the other issue: spirit possession.
None of the above can be cured by anti-psychotic meds, and very often, such meds are just as destructive.
As I said, I did a field residency in psychiatry. I speak from hard experience.
I know there are good psychiatrists. I had one. Alas, he knew nothing about soul disorders, dark nights of the soul, mystical experiences, demonic possession, and he was way out of his depth.
I knew that all along, but I was so wrecked by a spiritual pounding that was put on me, following a seriously jolting dream, that I was a basket case. All I wanted to do was die.
Then, the time came, I knew it was going to pass, if I left psychiatry. When I told my shrink that, I said he’d never had another patient like me, had he? He said no. I said, did he know why? He said no. I said because it nothing was wrong with me but God messing with me.
I told him right off when we met that I was a mystic in trouble. He said no problem. I could have ended up with a lot more dangerous doctor. But the pills he gave me nearly killed me. You cannot treat soul workings with pills. I would have been far better left alone, but once on those pills, it’s like being on heroin. Psychiatry denies that, but then, they do not take the pills and learn they are addictive.
Angels got me off the pills. A hell of a way to learn about psychiatry. 1997-1998. 16 months in HELL.
The only way I know to really learn about it.
The majority of individuals I dealt with were different in that they had limited knowledge of their specific diagnoses and were unphased by “words” – no matter if they were classed as having a chemical imbalance or were labeled psychotic. In contrast to what you talked about, I have seen medications totally turn a life around. One of my favorites was a man who came to us on 1200mg of Thorazine and was a complete zombie. Years later and after numerous changes in meds and dosages, he was ultimately started on Clozaril and a new man emerged. Gone were the wild delusions and the hallucinations (auditory) were “under control”. We had found him with wads of paper stuffed in his ears in his attempt to silence the voices and with Clozaril at the proper dose, although he continued to admit to the voices, he described them as non-threatening and tolerable. Today, he lives in an apartment (with supports in place daily) he is cheerful, expresses contentment and goes to a sheltered workshop every day – a life that is far superior to the one he previously had. His schizophrenia responded well to Clozaril but I know each patient is an individual and not everyone realizes the same benefit. So many with mood disorders have been enabled, with medication, to resume life in a meaningful way and yet the personality disorders are not even likely to recognize their maladaptive behaviors, may refuse treatment and are frequently impervious to recovery. I am now stepping off my soapbox……….
The fellow is having no side effects from Clozaril? I never met a psychiatric patient, and I met more than a few, who was not plagued by side effects. Most of them were taking other meds to deal with the main med’s side effects, and the secondary meds were producing even more side effects.
The side effects I experienced from Zyprexa and Zoloft were beyond horrible, and had zero alleviating effect on what was visited on me by the spirit world. I also tried Risperdal and Seroquel briefly, not at the same time, not also while on Zyprexa, with about same horrific torture. Toward the end, I used Zanax when I was at my wits end. Half a tab of Zanax [correct spelling is Xanax, but it I pronounced the way I spelled it], and I was looped into the next day. That was the only thing that slowed down the night terrors and let me sleep some at night. I only took Zanax a few times, because I knew I was being killed by the pills. Ever see white hot dime-size sores in a patient’s mouth and throat caused by meds? I had plenty of them. My weight jumped 50 pounds. My blood pressure went from 110/70 to 150 something over 95. My pulse went from resting 60 to 95. All due to meds.
You describe an improvement in the Clorazil man’s condition, but not a cure. Most likely, there is a cure, but I would wager psychiatry could not be convinced of it. Nor the man himself. I never met one psychiatric patient who believed he/she could be cured and leave psychiatry behind. I discussed that with quite a few psychiatric out patients. They felt they were better off with psychiatry, even as they were miserable with the meds and side effects. I did not meet one patient who was okay with the meds. Not one.
I met a real sho nuff Nurse Rachet, too. And two really sho nuff just like her psychiatrists. I met not one psychiatrist during that time, nor one psychologist working with the psychiatrists, nor one clinical social worker, nor one psychiatric nurse who had a clue about anything I had been living with for a decade, and none of it did I make up or imagine. Nor do I make up or imagine any of it today, but never would I convince psychiatry of it.
Psychiatry’s problem, simply, there is nothing in that curriculum about God, angels, demons, soul fracture, soul loss. Shamans deal with that, Jesus dealt with it. Me, too. Very, very difficult terrain, and sometimes very dangerous for the “therapist”.
The physical pounding I take, the poisoning I experience, the dream rigors, all come out of the spirit in what I am engaging. I absorb it, then it is digested in me through some process beyond my conscious awareness, like a sewage treatment plant. Then it leaves me, and I get a respite until the next load of shit is dumped in me. Spirit shit.
I also have to endure karma I brought down on myself, which also hits me physically and other ways. Don’t think karma is in the psychiatric curriculum either.
Every dream I have is instructive or corrective what I currently am engaging, or am about to engage. Yep, my dreams often predict the future.
As I wrote to you once before, Fred Crabbe came to me in a dream about something I was going to engage. Before that day was out, I heard from you, saying you had received what I had sent back to Fred.
Nurse Rachet went berserk over my telling her stuff I had experienced. The two Nurse Rachet kindred shrinks followed suit.
They went berserk over what I told them. I did nothing to threaten them, nor anyone, nor myself.
It was educational, but hardly entertaining. Terrifying, actually.
Actually this particular patient did not have significant side effects from Clozaril although there was the shuffling gait from years of taking the older antipsychotics. 3 or 4 others on Clozaril did have side effects but they weren’t severe. One had drowsiness and some drooling, another had drowsiness and one had rapid heart rate. Of course all had a diagnosis of schizophrenia and had taken numerous other medications without significant benefit. Apprehension with the first patient on Clozaril was eased by the fact that there had been no abnormal lab results and this patient had required no change in dosage over a period of time. Recognizing that Clozaril requires strict monitoring and that there are contraindications, it was found be an effective choice for some without those contraindications who had not improved with other drug regimens.
Was truly heartbreaking to see those with tardive dyskinesia and parkinsonian symptoms from years of taking the old traditional antipsychotics but there were a few who, at least initially, when switched to an atypical, had less than ideal control of their psychotic symptoms.
There are definitely potential side effects associated with any of the meds and we had more who had problems with some other atypicals such as Risperdal and Zyprexa – the threat of metabolic syndrome with weight gain, increased risk of diabetes, increase in lipid levels and then the personally troublesome issues such as dry mouth, constipation, akithesia, etc. Our routine was such that labs were drawn at least every 3 months (mandated every 2 weeks with Clozaril), EKG’s were monitored, etc. Maybe we were just fortunate but you apparently were not. No, never saw the hot spots in the mouth. Ever determine what caused them?
Was truly heartbreaking to see those with tardive dyskinesia and parkinsonian symptoms from years of taking the old traditional antipsychotics but in reality, we did see a few who, when we tried to switch them over to an atypical, did not have as good control of their psychotic symptoms.
I can’t seem to shut my mouth when it comes to this topic – as is obvious – but am going to take control and stop for the time being!
Sorry but I reread your mail and have to add a comment. I am not convinced that true schizophrenia is able to be cured; is treatable and manageable with the right meds, yes and some as they age seem to mellow and don’t seem plagued by such severe symptoms. I have never, that I can recall, seen a single one with that diagnosis come off the meds and remain symptom free. Believe me, we tried and about every 6 months attempted to reduce to the minimally effective dose only to find that that lower dose just didn’t get it!
Zyprexa caused the hot spots in my mouth and throat, but I cannot prove it.
There is no cure in medicine for schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, schizoaffective disorder, etc. I am not talking here about medical cure.
A man on Haldol, whom I had met in Birmingham, followed me all the way down to Key West because he believed I could help him. His diagnosis was schizophrenia. He said he was in really bad shape before he went on Haldol some years before. I was concerned about trying to help him, if he was still using it. He was getting information in dreams, and was told in one dream to stay on the Haldol, so I let that go. He said he had started dreaming, because he had prayed to God to be able to dream the way I did. He told me about several dreams, and it was clear he was dreaming like I did. Based on his dreams, he was making pretty good progress under the angels’ working with him, until I screwed up something I was given to do with two women he had met through me. I was involved with one, the other was a friend who had met the other. The man was friends only of both women. I became useless to him, useless to anyone, useless to my angel handlers. I contracted MRSA, as a result. Nearly died. He went back to Birmingham.
After emergency surgery, to remove three awful MRSA lesions from private areas of my carcass, I was treated off and on for recurrence, with antibiotics – pill form. Finally, I was able to get my doctor to admit he had talked with doctors all over America and they had no cure. I said that must me really awful for him, a doctors doctor, which he was, who had dedicated his life to trying to help people, and he could not cure MRSA. He looked like he wanted to cry. That night in my sleep, I had dreams that caused me to feel I would be cured if I took just one day’s dosage of the new med he had prescribed that morning. I took two pills that day, and the new MRSA lesion started to recede, was cleared up in maybe 10 days. Not possible, taking only one day’s dosage – not possible by human calculation.
I knew all along the MRSA was the direct result of blowing the work assignment with the two women. I had a dream before the three MRSA lesions erupted, in which I was shown I had cancer in my anima’s vagina. Maybe two days later, the lesions came up. Didn’t know what they were at first, although I was very familiar with MRSA, as it’s rampant down here. Homeless people get it all the time, walk around with open lesions, usually bandaged. Rampant in the mainstream community, too, I learned from my and other doctors. Is indigenous to the subtropics, which I had learned when I lived on Maui a while. Divers down here get it after cutting themselves on coral. My surgeon told me after cutting the three lesions out of my hide that I could do anything I wanted but go into the ocean.
Last time I saw Fred Crabbe was in earlyish 1999, I think it was. By then, I was about a year weaned from the residues of the psychiatrist’s pills. The actual weaning from the pills themselves had taken a month. Then, I had a month off. Then, I was put on a cleansing regimen, which eliminated any food or beverage that taxed the liver, and included lots of fresh squeezed green vegetable juice, plus carrot and beet juice. Only beverage allowed was water, which I was able to make into herb tea, if I wished. And I could use fresh lemon juice in it. It was six months before all the chemical residues were out of my system. Short version of more detailed story, two people witnessed first hand and had no doubt it was underway, as they were being spoken to by the angels, also. Without them administering to me, often day and night, one at a time, I don’t know how I would have gotten through the chemical cleansing and the soul cleansing that accompanied it, which was wild and often terrifying.
Anyway, I was nearly done with all of that when Fred showed up with a story of having himself just emerged from being in a black hole for three years, during which he mostly just sat in an easy chair in his living room. He recently had gotten a job with an fast oil change company, and was enjoying that and putting to use his extensive mechanic skills, showing the younger employees how to figure out what was wrong with vehicles and fix them, as they did that work, also. As I recall, Fred said his brother, Charles, had turned his back on him. Charles and his wife were very religious. I was in Charles’s wedding, saw where he was headed, told my wife at that time I had lost him. He and I reconnected many years later, old business needing attention, but we were far apart and it was a brief passing.
I told Fred he had been in a very rough dark night of the soul, which is a spiritual event souls sometime experience and psychiatry today would diagnose as major depression and attempt to treat with pills, even though the cause was pure spiritual and it would run its course in due time, if the pills didn’t screw it up. As I recall, Fred said he did not go the pill route with it, but just endured it, which is the correct way to do it, if other people will leave you alone and make sure you don’t starve to death meanwhile. Or freeze to death, because you went homeless and are living outside.
My shrink had never even heard of the dark night of the soul, and I explained it to him, and gave him reading references. He was raised at the Menninger Clinic, where is father was a staff psychiatrist. After completing his own psychiatric residence, he returned to Menninger and ran its free clinic for a few years, before striking out on his own and moving with his wife, also a psychiatrist, to Birmingham, with their two, I think, small children. He landed the job running the psych ward at St. Vincent’s and had a private clinic. He rescued me from the one flew over the cuckoo’s next folks, but by the time I was done being rescued, I was addicted to Zyprexa and Zoloft, a condition for my release from St. Vincent’s.
About two weeks later, killer dark night swooped in and clobbered me, after I dreamt of swimming in a warm sea, playing footsy with the nose of a huge black hammerhead shark facing up at me from below. Shortly afterward, I felt like I’d had a lobotomy, half of my brain had died. I late came to call it the killer dark night, for all I wanted to do was kill myself. My shrink refused to believe the shark was the Zyprexa. He maintained it was my subconscious wounding. I think it was both.
Anyway, Fred and I had a nice dinner at a sports bar, we talked about life, and I gave him some money so he could buy dog food for his dog. I think that was the last I saw him, or heard of him, until he emailed me about two months ago, having found me online.
Oddly, maybe two months before that, Charles and his wife, and two of their friends, I knew one from Ramsay High days, showed up on my front door. When something like that happens, I wonder what is really going on? Crabs are members of the spider family, to me crabs mostly represent MRSA – think brown recluse, black widow. Although spiders have another much more pleasant meaning – Spider Woman, of the Native American tradition. Her web holds the universe together. But my sense was, is, Charles showing up on my doorstep was about the rougher side of spider. More for me to experience there, externally, internally, personally, impersonally.
Anyway, here you now are in my life, a representative of psychiatry, it turns out, compliments Fred Crabbe. Don’t know if you are saving my drivel, perhaps some day it might fit into a psychiatric museum under the category – “deluded man claimed angels cured him of MRSA, and lots of other horrible things, and can cure schizophrenia, too.”
The angels indeed cured me of more than MRSA, which the two attendants watched in astonishment. One was a Jewish New Age practitioner – male. The other was my fifth wife, devout Christian. Turned their entire world view, and mine, upside down and inside out, what I was taken through starting September 1998, lasting a little over one year. I told them they were next, if they didn’t bail out. They didn’t believe me, but they soon saw enough going on with them to indicate maybe I was not crazy entirely. When they eventually balked, I was removed from them and sent off on another adventure, with another woman.
Other adventures followed that one. Still in progress, but seems the angels ran out of women to grind to dust with me.
I imagine that is what the goodmorning websites might really be about. Probably zero chance a publisher would cotton to what I write about my experiences. So the Web was used, by-passing human publishers, but not by-passing The Editorial Board. Seems like a kind of Last Will and Testament, too. Or, memoirs.
Obviously your experiences and beliefs are your own but to be honest, those situations that you describe are completely foreign to me. I can’t identify with them – not the experiences, dreams or even the adverse medication affects, etc and so it is hard to respond in a way that connects – I mean I am totally out of my element – not a clue as I have not lived with/personally dealt with any of those! My connection to psychiatry was as one of several nurses who worked with many individuals with varying diagnoses including mental illnesses and it’s associated issues. No expertise here – just one who found this to be one of the most interesting areas in the health care field.
Hope Fred is doing OK – we just pass around emails and many from him are religious. Haven’t seen him since a Crestline reunion we had decades ago. I never knew Charles or Max as well.
MRSA – never had that either but did see it at work, of course. Are there clinics there that provide care for the homeless?
Scuse the brevity but gotta run. Take care
Yes, there is a medical clinic down here for homeless people and poor people who are not homeless, also counseling, shelters, soup kitchen, clothes pantry, Salvation Army, dry-out clinics.
These days, I know no one who can identify with my experiences. The few who did, mostly if not fully, one was right there beside me, are memories.
How are the clinics and counseling funded? Wonder if the state provides services.
Had some afterthoughts relative to my comments about our clients’ medication side effects – know my implication was that they occurred less frequently than you would have expected. Remember, those I dealt with were developmentally disabled, and mentally ill – most had been on meds for a long time and many likely didn’t know what it was like to “feel normal”. They were less likely to even recognize a side effect or it would take specific prompting – they didn’t complain the way you or I would, thus it was up to us to question them, their staff, review lab results and just observe for indicators. This was totally different from dealing with someone who had experienced normal living and feelings and who had the capability of recognizing and accurately reporting side effects as they emerged. And we did have some on benztropine or other anticholinergics when felt indicated. Just saying………….
Sounds like you were looking after patients on locked wards, in long-term institutions, being what I heard called warehoused.
I met, got to know a number of people diagnosed with schizophrenia, bi-polar, anxiety disorder, multiple personality disorder, etc. All under the care of psychiatrists. All struggled with side effects. These were not institutionalized people. I got to know quite a few of those, too, by being locked up with them. All of them were viewed as incurably mentally ill by their psychiatrists. Those somewhat in touch with themselves viewed themselves as incurably mentally ill, while some were incapable of self assessment. The ones who may have felt normal were so out of it that they could not self assess.
Looked to me the chemical companies were doing great and the patients were not.
Did not spend much time around developmentally disabled people. Did not know drugs were used on them.
Fred spoke some with me when we talked on the phone after he had emailed me, about his wife he had met in Pensacola, who was very religious. He had joined her church, gotten involved with the congregation. I saw a lot of people under the care of psychiatrists get very religious. I was one of them. I was ready to try anything. But all along, I did not feel I was having the same experience they were, because I knew my difficulty was spirit induced. What I did not know was why, nor did I know if it would ever lift.
About a month after the big hammerhead shark dream, my previous wife, who was a clinical social worker specializing in Sandplay Therapy, she trained directly under the founder, Dora Kalff, who had become my dear friend some years earlier, came to me in a dream and said, “You are on a dangerous assignment and I am protecting your back.” That had special meaning to us both, “protecting your back.” That confirmed for me that I was on a spiritual horror adventure.
A dear male friend had two dreams of me during that time, in which my father and other people were worried about me, but I was telling my friend I was okay. He’d had a number of dreams for me, and would have a number after. Tell you one later on, as it pertained to psychiatry.
About a year into it, I was told in my sleep, “The reason you are having this experience is because you once were Judas.” That wife and I both were convinced I had been Judas. As had my current wife seem to think that. As did my next three wives – these were tuned in women, in the spirit sense, all believed it. Maybe they were crazy, too.
Anyway, finally, my psychiatrist said he felt I should go to the Menninger Clinc, it was a wonderful place, the could help me. Understand, he had worked for Menninger, and he had not been able to help me. But he was sure they could help me, and he persuaded my wife and my father of it, and he agreed to pay for it.
Well, I was not terribly thrilled about that, but I was not terribly thrilled about my life as it was going, actively planning to kill myself every morning, for four hours, until I arrived at the same method as the day before and the day before, and then I relaxed because tomorrow I would be adios.
I drove down to Panana City and stayed at Kiska Court out on the end of that beach, near Phillips Inlet, where I had stayed quite a few times and fished the inlet with Dr. Leo and later with him and his friends and their children, and later by myself. I hung out on the public pier. Some pompano were running, I caught a few with pompano jigs, like I had done many years before, when it meant a lot to me. This time, I’m just going through the motions, trying to figure out another way to kill myself, or hoping for a miracle.
Before heading down to the beach, I borrowed some tackle from the man who dreamt for me. He asked what I was going to do about Menninger? I said I didn’t know. I was hoping God had another plan. On my return to Bham a few days later, he told me of a dream he’d had while I was away.
We went to Menninger together. Outside it was beautiful. In the reception area it was beautiful. He left me there and went through a door into the rest of it. Then he came out and told me, “Sloan there’s nothing back there but dungeons and padded cells. If you come here, you will never leave.”
My psychiatrist seemed unaffected by that dream, which was my clue it was time for me to leave psychiatry behind.
Then entered a Christian woman I knew somewhat, who worked with a mental ill support group I attended once a week, she was the secretary-treasurer, a man with schizophrenia, paranoid affect, and anxiety disorder, on Zypreza and several other pills, ran the group. It was his life work, along with visiting the mentally ill and going to NAMI conventions. [National Association of the Mentally Ill]
When I told the woman of my friend’s dream about Menninger, she said she was hearing from God, if I went to Menninger, I would stay there until my father quit paying for it, then I would be sent to Kansas State Mental Hospital, where I would live out my days.
This woman was an Intercessor since she was a child. Hearing from Above was routine with her. She already had received a two-page hand-written transmission, directed to me, about me, saying people thought I was crazy and I had fallen into secular thinking, until now … Then began the message, the predictions, all of which, I suppose eventually came true, albeit I would have made it come true prettier, it I had been in charge …
On hearing of that from me, a man in the mental health support group, he was bipolar, on meds, took me out to lunch and told me this woman was the real deal; if she received that transmission, I could take it to the bank.
Anyway, I was terrified to act, languished another six weeks or so, went to the beach, fished, came home, learned of my friend’s Menninger dream, heard the Intercessor’s take on it, told my doc I was leaving and asked him to give me a weaning schedule for the Zyprexa and Zoloft. He said cut the dosage by 1/4 of the original dose each week, in a month I would be off of it.
I was already on that precise weaning schedule for two weeks, except I had stopped the Zoloft cold turkey. Three prior attempts to stop the Zyprexa cold turkey had put me into something like what I have heard heroin addicts experience when they quit cold turkey.
I started dreaming again – during the killer dark night, there were only the two dreams described above. Before the killer dark night, I dreamt profusely. After I started coming out of it, I dreamt profusely again; all the dreams were instructive, corrective.
I realize this is beyond your range of experience. Psychiatry was beyond my range of experience, and I got to know it up close and personal.
Something similar to my other world experience happened to the Swiss Psychiatrist Carl Jung, under whom Dora Kalff would train. But reading Jung’s autobiography, I did not see he got anywhere close to the dunking I received.
I came away from my field residency convinced nobody should be allowed to practice psychiatry who had not lived six weeks on a locked ward, and who had not taken every pill he/she might prescribed for at least six months, and had experienced the side effects of each pill, and then the withdrawal from each pill.
And before administrating electro shock, psychiatrists should have it administered to them. I was spared electroshock, although my psychiatrist tried to talk me into it, after going off for a weekend seminar on how to administer it. I told him I didn’t think I cared to have him use me as a test patient after he was trained for two days in it.
Goodness no, not a locked ward & definitely not warehoused individuals. Never restrained physically or chemically unless true risk of harming self or others, and not even “time out” – most were free to walk all over the campus. Admission criteria was a diagnosis of DD but many had psychiatric issues as well. All were ambulatory, all participated in chores about the home, went to work 5 days a week doing various jobs under the supervision of the campus workshop, a few worked at McDonalds, they all earned wages and spent much of those wages at Walmart or wherever they chose. They attended community sporting events such as college ballgames. Most were capable of participation in these activities and that was certainly our goal but a situation might arise that required closer monitoring and thus limitations. We had a school on campus for the dozen or so who met the age requirements but were unable to progress in public school. Also had quite a few with autism. Just an interesting variety of folks, loved many of them, did attempt to avoid a few but all in all, it was a great place to be and work. Just wanted to clarify..
Thanks for returning what I wrote to you last night.
My father came to me in a dream early this a.m., really put out with me for dropping the ball on something. Had no clue what it was about. Said, with God as my witness, his antipathy toward me was duly noted. Later dreams helped me understand what he was so upset with me about – after I saw I had not saved a copy of what I sent to you last night. I again stated to my father and the angels, their antipathy toward me was noted, with God as my witness.
I’ve gotten to the point that my terror of what they can do to me is being balanced out by my fury at the rough way they often treat me, who only needs to be told in ways he can understand what he needs to do, or needs to undo, or needs to straighten out, and he will do it. He does not need to beget beat black and blue in dreams, put into terror, to do what he is supposed to do. I was not even convinced they liked what I was writing to you. For all I knew, they were going to beat me up for it.
A later dream during an early morning nap left me convinced I am to publish our two different experiences with and perspectives of psychiatry. No need for anyone to know who you are, or where you live. Might interest some people, not others. Might upset some people, not others.
Okay, I am getting a better sense of where you worked, although it does seem it was not entirely voluntary for the residents.
DD is diastrophic dysplasia? Twisted, stunted limbs, body growth?
My oldest first cousin Leo, son of Dr. Leo, took a Masters in Special Ed, and I think he worked with young people with difficulties perhaps similar to those of the residents at the campus where you worked. From all I heard, he was as good at it as his father was as good at being a pediatrician. You two and Leo (my cousin) might have hit it off pretty well collegially.
There was an autistic young man in the second Nurse Rachet psychiatrist’s facility, dumped there by his family. He was all over the place. Restrained in a straight jacket, he worked his way free in a few minutes and took off again. Was pretty stressful in there even before he showed up.
When the Birmingham psychiatrist agreed to receive me at St. Vincent’s, the Nurse Rachet psychiatrist was furious, tried all she could to stop it. Left the facility, so she would not have to sign my release order to my wife, our minister and Sunday School teacher, to take me to St. Vincent’s. The nurse on station was really disturbed, said it was not right, signed me out. No telling what happened to her later.
No, it wasn’t Bryce. Wasn’t even in Alabama. That’s another story, which I don’t want to tell on myself again: how I stupidly put myself into psychiatry’s clutches to begin with. Perhaps it was always in the big scheme, otherwise, I might not have done the field residency. Or maybe, since I was so stupid, it was decided I might as well do the field residency and learn more about psychiatry than I ever cared to know.
No it was not voluntary in the sense that the individuals themselves did not decide they wanted to live at our facility. Many had parents who had sought help for various reasons, example- behavioral issues they were unable to manage at home, especially for those diagnosed within the Autism Spectrum Disorder. DD stands for developmental disability and so through testing it was determined that they met criteria – that the IQ was below 70. Some were referred by the regional office, some were referred by judges after a brush with the law and would not have fared well (due to their lower IQ) in jail or a detention center. We had quite a few who were transferred after a stay in a psychiatric hospital after they had stabilized but were felt unlikely to be managed well as an outpatient – again, their IQ had to be below the “norm”. Many had inadequate family resources needed to provide the necessary structure to assure compliance and safety.
I am apprehensive about any composition for publication that contains my experiences -. I have my reasons so please trust me here, OK?
The angels have their reasons, too. They arranged for us to meet, they kept you on your soap box, even after you said you did not know why you stayed on it. You do not see that?
I know of an osteopath who claims to have success treating autistic children with the old osteopathic manipulations and unwinding technique – John Upledger, The Upledger Institute, West Palm Beach, Florida. I know him personally. He trained me for a while in his method. He trained lots of people.
Angels? All I know for certain is that I can go on and on – oftentimes longer than I should
Yes, angels. They arranged this whole event.
Back in 2004, I went through a rough spell after screwing up a major work assignment in the Florida Keys. My dreams were very rough, sometimes terrifying. Three men friends urged me to see a doctor and get a prescription to stop me from dreaming. One of the men himself was on such a prescription for some years, because his dreams had driven him bonkers. I half-way wondered if they were right, asked God for input. That night, a voice I had come to know very well told me in my sleep, “You need to dream, Sloan, so you will know what is really going on.” I had known that since early 1987, but in that moment I needed reinforcement. I told my friends what I’d been told. They responded like my pschiatrist had responded to the dream another friend had had about what would happen to me if I went to the Menninger Clinic.
I sent all of the above to her, saying I had taken her name out of it but did not know whether or not I would be told to publish it. She wrote back:
Whether or not my name was deleted, there is far more here than I am comfortable with – my opinions and experiences were not meant for public viewing but merely for sharing viewpoints. I sincerely hope you will respect my request to not publish this sharing – much is inappropriately revealing and could be considered a breach …..
I have several thoughts.
I have tried to explain to you a number of times, in different ways, that I do what my angel controllers tell me to do, and I don’t do what they tell me not to do. Right now, I don’t know what the angels want to happen.
You clearly were brought to me by the angels, for us to have the discussion. You probably don’t see it that way, but that is the only way I can see it.
I see no violations of confidences of patients. It is a sharing of different perspectives of psychiatry, between a mainstream proponent, with experience in the field, and a mystic, with experience in the field, which sadly is very rare.
Perhaps there is more that causes you apprehension, which you have not told me? Something personal, perhaps? For I see nothing professional that should cause you apprehension. Nor do I see anything that casts negative light on you.
Would you please then delete the references to my state?
No problem doing that, probably should have done it already. Will take care of that now.
It may be it will not be published. I simply do not know yet.
I wish now, we had not talked about any of it. I wish that about a lot of things that came my way.
I found myself thinking a few times yesterday, which was March 31, 2012, of what I was told by the angels when I was with the Colorado wife, who would cover my back during the killer dark night with psychiatry. Before God, we all are naked. There are no fig leaves in paradise, nor any secrets. My Birmingham wife, the devout Christian, who witnessed my resurrection from the killer dark night, was used in a dream last night to tell me to publish this story, steep as it truly is.
Returning to near the beginning:
April 1, 2012