Apr 09

The Ultimate Violation of My Civil Liberties PART I: The Final Lockdown; I am a Jew. And I’ll prove it!

The FINAL Lockdown




You better watch out. You better not cry. Because I assure you, I am an expert in such affairs. They may lock you up and throw away the key, and you will have me to remember giving you a fair warning about it. We are living in ominous times, and we are not free. First off, let’s get one thing perfectly clear: I am NOT crazy. I am very smart. And that is the subject of my book that I’ve been writing for over 10 years. But I can’t get this thing out fast enough before my civil liberties are violated once again in this country. I am at the mercy of the hands of the psychiatric institution, and I have nowhere to go but downward if I do not get my name cleared from this oppressive and domineering structure and fight its savagery like a pillaging barbarian through the streets of Rome.

It was the night before St. Patty’s Day a few weeks ago when I was perusing You Tube late at night.  I clicked on one of those computerized meditation videos in my You Tube recommendation list that help you sleep: “4 Hour Healing Sleep Music: Regenerate Your Cells; Delta Binauralbeats; Solfeggio 528Hz” from the PowerThoughts Meditation Club. We experience delta waves when we are in a deep non-dreaming sleep, and they are believed by some to provide access to the mind of Infinite Intelligence. So I thought to tune in to relax. I then happened to glance at the “Up Next” column beside the video I was about to watch and couldn’t believe my eyes. I had never seen such a listing. Within that list of Binauralbeats music, was a recorded audiobook of Hitler’s Mein Kampf. I felt sick. What if I had chosen to listen to this sleep meditation music, and then suddenly drifted off, and as the videos continued streaming from my “Up Next” column, Hitler’s words began blaring through my subconscious dream state? And since there is very little or no recall of memory from people experiencing delta brainwave activity, I wouldn’t be consciously aware that I heard those words but they would be imbedded in my unconscious. It was like lacing our brain patterns with white noise and then severing our spinal cords.

I’d like to say a few geeky words about recommended YouTube videos. Before the You Tube system generates recommendations, it identifies related videos watched in a given session after the user watches a given video, and computes a relatedness score for these videos. Then, after drawing data from content data (like titles and descriptions), the system then combines these parameters with a user’s activity on the site (like favorites, likes, and view time) to create what is called a seed set. It then, traces paths of related videos out from this seed set to generate recommendations. A vector is created that represents all of the videos a user has watched. You Tube then compares this vector to vectors of other people to try to find a close match. If you are a close match, then videos that one person watches are likely relevant to the other person.

In non-nerd language, given what I saw laced through those cyberwaves with Hitler rising to power right before my very eyes, was the following question: Who the hell is watching these videos whose vector is likely to correspond with my vector? Yes, I have some of these digitalized meditation videos assigned to my playlists, but the Fuhrer’s? Even further, right beneath his book was a slowed down score from Mozart. I always had a problem with this idea about slowing down classical music. It’s like playing a record backwards, it’s going opposite the direction of a piece of art inspired by God. If you can picture for a moment Tom Hulce in that movie, Amadeus, the madness of his genius was pouring out of him directly through the frantic pace of that tempo—that’s just inspired stuff that comes from something beyond our human capacity of understanding. Why fool around with that? Especially during sleep? It’s meant to sound like it sounds. I would be afraid to listen to that.

So how did my Jen Siciliano vector—created through data drawn from my likes and playlists and my user activity on You Tube—connect with a vector that would generate those recommendations? In other words, boiling it down even further—how did You Tube’s algorithms lead me to Hitler? Especially when the name Steve Perry is in half of the titles in my video playlists. It’s a glitch. It doesn’t make sense. And it challenges the laws of quantum information processing. You can call me paranoid and mentally ill, but when I see incongruence, I ask the question “Why?” It’s called critical thinking. Something I had learned was important somewhere in my schooling growing up, which doesn’t size up to anything particularly applicable today.

Then I realized who might be watching similar videos I had posted but were fans of such things, but that in my research, I considered savage. Because my playlists include things like Transhumanism and the Human plus breed that is being created in Artificial Intelligence right now because they are associated with subjects in my book, Not As Crazy As You Think, which is an anti-psychiatry book I had finally completed over the course of the last 10 years, based on my heinous experiences with the system. I also have a Nazi propaganda film on one of my playlists about the elimination of the “mentally ill” called, “Nazi Eugenics – Life Unworthy of Life.” Yeah, it’s real. Watch the 30 minute video when you get a chance and learn something new from my eyes:


You see, not everyone is aware of the great influence Naziism has had on the growth and prosperity of American psychiatry. And no, I’m not a Scientologist. It’s called knowledge gained through my one true life. My life that contains experiences within it that are real, not imaginary. It sounds too much like conspiracy theory? Well, as I have learned, the term “conspiracy theory” is used to silence those who have connected the dots. Who have made an intelligent conclusion based on reliable facts and then drawn upon circumstances in real life that stand to prove these facts. So call me a theorist, fine. But the truth is the truth.

The philosophy that guides psychiatry is the same kind of Master Race ideology that underlies the pseudoscience of Eugenics, a practice that Hitler directly supported. Hitler was very impressed and inspired by the American Eugenics program, and declared Eugenicist Madison Grant’s book, “The Passing of the Great Race or The Racial Basis of European History,” as his bible. The Eugenics movement started in the late 1800s and was driven by the concern that people who had poor genes were reproducing faster than those with superior genes. So as a logical course of action, those with better genetics needed to guide human evolution towards a more superior genetic composition for the future benefit of humanity, which resulted in sterilization of certain populations starting with whom they deemed “the mentally ill.” By the early part of the 20th century, Eugenics had spread to almost 30 countries, most notably the United States under the American Eugenics Society where forced sterilization was widely practiced. The Eugenics movement in Germany was led by a boatload of physicians and psychiatrists as they sought to make a biological, medical connection to support such ideologies. German psychologist, Alfred Ploetz, was one of the leading pioneers in the German Eugenics movement and in his book, The Fitness of Our Race and the Protection of the Weak, he shared how to control the population of the genetic inferiors. In 1905, his brother-in-law, psychologist Ernst Rudin, established the first organization for Racial Hygiene. He had stated, “All nations have to haul around with them an extraordinarily large number of inferiors, weaklings, sickly and cripples…through wise legislation on sterilization we would also be able to pursue rationally the best avenues for breeding.”

Hitler hailed Eugenics as the science that would rebuild the German nation because it gave the Nazis a medical justification for their genocidal practices. The Nazis funded their programs and gave them political support. Said Hitler, “He who is not healthy bodily or mentally is not allowed to perpetuate his malady in the body of his child. The right of personal freedom recedes before his duty to preserve the race.” Close to 40% of German psychiatrists joined the S.S. by 1943. And the mentally ill, in fact, were the first to be sterilized and then murdered in the Nazi death camps. Their T4 Tiergarten Strasse program murdered over 70,000 people in psychiatric hospitals who were considered “mentally ill” by the state.

So, having done so much research for my book over the last ten years involving these correlations, I was naturally disturbed by what I had seen on You Tube and felt deeply inspired the next morning when I committed to writing and collaging about my findings. That particular day my son woke up telling me he wasn’t feeling well and that he wanted to stay home. I had no problem with that, but it proved to be dreadfully dangerous to me on that given day. I set him up with snacks and video game time and worked away with new ideas fueling my inspired writing. Throughout my creatively whimsical process, I noticed my family kept calling me on my phone but I ignored their voicemails. “Oh, God,” I thought. “I’ll deal with them later. I have to finish writing these ideas down before I run out of time before my gig starts at 8pm.”  I had secured a great bodypainting gig for that night, one that I had scheduled three months earlier and that I had been organizing for weeks. I had a model coming down from Albany for the event and one coming from Manhattan to be painted for a local clothes designer’s birthday party at a restaurant in Westchester where I had worked before. I was the entertainment. So I ignored a few calls. They did sound a little worried, but that was a standard possible mood from them. Everything worried them about who I was, and I was used to it. I carried on. I knew what I might have been in for, but I stayed in the zone because I was working through ideas that were directly linked to my book. I needed to finish before I had to run to work.

And then suddenly, just as I was getting ready to take a shower so that I could hit the road, I noticed my parents on my porch, and within seconds they barged into my home with desperate looks of fear plastered across their faces. Having caught me in the act of being creative, my parents were convinced that it was definitely time to drag me away to the loony bin again.

“Oh no, what’s going on now?” I thought to myself in an encroaching panic. I had seen those looks in their eyes before, and I knew I was in for trouble.

“You have to come with us, Jennifer. We called your psychiatrist, and he wants us to take you into the hospital for bloodwork.” With my past experience I knew this phrase was a decoy. I never was released with just blood tests alone. I had a record—a mental illness record—put on the books 20 years ago with the heinous label of bipolar disorder affixed to my name—one I have been trying to fight to get removed from my records for the last two decades, and which is the subject of my book. I couldn’t believe want was unfolding right before my eyes.

“Ma, I am NOT crazy. When are you going to stop this nonsense? A=A, for Christ’s sake! Crazy equals crazy. Not crazy equals not crazy. Wake up from the brainwash, Ma!”

My father chimed in, “We don’t think you are crazy, Jennifer. We are just trying to help you. You are going into an episode.”

I tried to make him stop carrying on, “Daddy, think about what crazy means. Nazis are crazy. And crazy equals crazy. When are you going to wake up?”

I wasn’t completely convinced that they were my enemies yet, but something alarming was taking place because as time began to move more slowly on my side, they appeared frantic to me as if their time was speeding up. My commitment to my work was somehow in their brainwashed minds a symptomatic emergency. I was looking tired, which indicated I had little sleep from the night before, which to my parents, was clearly a sure sign my bipolar symptoms were coming on. And I was using words like “Nazi,” which to them could only mean one thing: Our bipolar daughter’s mind is entering fairy la-la land again.

“We talked to your psychiatrist, and he wants us to take you to a hospital for blood tests,” they both told me pacing nervously about my kitchen, like they had a very important task at hand. They were in some twisted myth in their imaginations that they were saving society from my creative mind that when it would explode into clarity, they always presumed was lunacy.

“I am not going anywhere. You come into my house and demand I should leave with you? For what reason?”

“Why weren’t you answering our calls?” cried my mother. Um, because you are frickin’ annoying? I am a grown woman of 45 and if I don’t answer my parents’ phone calls to this day, I am chastised and suspected to be going into an “episode.”

“Because I’ve been writing and I wanted to concentrate and not be disturbed!”

“Well, your psychiatrist said to bring you in.”

“On what grounds?”

“Jack called Joe, and he said he was scared of you.”

Oh boy. Because I was so involved with these ideas, collaging away, trying to organize my thoughts about them, furiously scrawling down notes on scraps of paper throughout my house, I was compelled to focus resolutely on the task while my good little boy enjoyed watching TV and playing video games for the good portion of the day. Usually, if I was writing and having a randomly explosive creative session during the day when Jack was in school, it would be no big deal. I talk to myself a bit, walk around, smoke a cigarette, and laugh to myself when a good sentence strikes my imagination before I write it down. All of these actions inside the creative process of a writer are normal. Yes, normal. My brain is functioning normally when I go about taking such actions. Ask any true writer around you. The process can appear, well, a little nuts. If Jack were in school, it would have been just another one of those days where, after working with this kind of inspiration, I’d wrap up my day’s progress, pick him up at the bus stop, and continue the day as a doting mother, providing snacks for my little guy and helping him with his homework. But because I was in a deep, concentration zone and wasn’t giving my son my fullest attention, plus he witnessed my laughing out loud with a comment here and there as I was amused by my own creative genius, Jack was a little befuddled. So he called his Dad. And his Dad, well he had been through some crazy inspirational states I’ve been in before, and because he was so busy at work, instead of getting in touch with me personally, he called my parents to check up on me. And so, the nightmare had begun.

“So you already spoke to my psychiatrist? He’s MY psychiatrist. He’s supposed to be MY advocate, not yours. I’m going to call him myself.” I was preparing for the worst so I was going to fairly warn him that I was going to be writing down everything that happened because having finished my book and was still patiently awaiting an agent, I knew it was only a matter of a short time before my voice against this institution was heard out there in the wider world outside my uneducated parents’ living room with FOX news blasting 14 hours a day. I knew that my civil liberties were again at risk and I saw him as being directly associated with that. I got his voicemail, and I knew everything could be traced if he wanted it to be presented to the authorities, and I wanted him to know in full transparency that whatever he said could be used against him. I said, “I heard you spoke to my parents, and I just want you to know that you are being recorded. I am protected by the United States Constitution. Anything you choose to say going here forward can be used against you.” I was making it loud and clear that I was willing to battle hard if I had to this time, I was willing to put on the gloves and slam the blows because I had just about enough of this intrusion in my life over the last 20 years with these repeated unnecessary hospitalizations. Of course, in not speaking to me directly and in hearing only my voicemail, he must have assumed I crazily thought I was a secret agent for saying such a thing. I hung up the phone.

“Jennifer, we are not leaving until you get into the car with us,” they relented.

“Well, you can wait here all day, but I am getting ready for my gig.” I ignored them and as I took my shower I heard them carrying on, riling in anxiety, crying out to the gods, asking why, oh why, do they have to put up with this in their lives? Why can’t our daughter just behave like everyone else and be normal? They had simply had enough of my ways. When I finally got out, they said, “OK, we spoke to your psychiatrist again and he said if you don’t come with us, to take you into the police station.”

I could not believe my ears. He spoke to them directly twice and not to me at all? And knowing that he only heard that threatening voicemail sounding grandiose and paranoid—and rightly so!—I knew I was being completely misheard and wrongfully judged. Now I knew I was going to be persecuted. There was nothing left to do but comply with this idiotic program. The last thing I wanted was to bring the law into this, because as bad as the psychiatric institution was, they were at least predictable. I had no idea what massive monster the law had grown into as of late, and I was terrified of what they would do to me for being overly creative. “Fine, fine. I’ll go with you. But I am only going for bloodwork. Then I have to get to my damn gig!”

Jack didn’t know what was going on. He only saw his mom upset and tearing up. This was the backdrop of my life and Jack before had already witnessed all hell breaking loose when my family—and his father—had insanely overreacted to my sanity. I told him, “Jack, no matter what they say, I am not crazy. I am very smart. And someday you’ll see that very clearly. Hopefully someday soon.”

“I know Mommy, you’re like me,” he said holding my hand tight in the backseat of my parents’ prison vehicle.



I was brought into the emergency room of the hospital for “bloodwork” and the ol’ procedure had just begun. I was used to this. No questions asked of me except my age, weight and date of birth. Separation from my parents was imperative, who were usually the oppressors in the matter as this brainwash of my craziness had continually been beaten over their heads over the years. The next thing I knew I was brought into a sort of detention room, and yet, the excuse for bringing me there was to get “bloodwork.” I saw the standard cameras in the room and I knew I was being taped. It was becoming dreadfully obvious to me with every passing second that I was going to have to write about this mess in order to give the truth to the world about what was, in fact, really happening to me. Which was a denial of my civil rights as an American—NOT an episodic breakdown of a mentally ill person that they had begged me my entire life to buy into. So I said, “I am just reminding you and being fully clear here. Everything you say here is being recorded. I am protected by the United States Constitution.” Like I had told my psychiatrist, I now told Dr. Katherine Harding, the psychiatrist who stood before me in the emergency room at Northern Westchester Hospital in Mount Kisco, who was now given full control over my life with her limited interpretation of who I was as a human being, and who, I honestly believed (and still do so a little even now) was a clone because that robotic tone in her voice had less vocal inflection than Siri. I meant it what I said. I knew full well what was going on was another incident of the revocation of my civil liberties, and I felt she should know that in my future writing about this sham, anything she said could be used against her. But again, to a psychiatrist, that statement sounded as if I believed myself to be rigged with recording devices on my body as a secret agent with my satellite crew nearby watching the goings on of this fiasco through the TV.

“I’m tired of this Nazi system,” I mumbled under my breath.

“What are you saying about the Nazis?” she asked me.

“I’m calling it a Nazi system because I am marked. I have a number. I am a Jew.”

Dr. Harding then said, “Jew? Why are you using the word Jew?”

“Because like the Nazis gave their marks to the Jews, I have the mark of bipolar disorder attached to a pharma code that you guys gave me 20 years ago. So I have a number. I am a Jew. These are called concepts. Nazis oppress Jews. I am a Jew,” I repeated.

She appeared nervous, and she took a long look at me, as I looked straight into her soulless eyes. Then she left the room. A nurse then came in and told me to remove all my clothes and put on some inmate’s garments. “Why do I have to put these on?”

“The psychiatrist wants you to change.”

With humiliation I knew where this was going, and I did so reluctantly and with an attitude that was beginning to weaken as they started cracking their whips. “Don’t you think what they are doing is wrong? There is no reason for this,” I said to her. The nurse looked meek and a little afraid. “For what? For what reason? There is no reason for this,” I repeated.

She answered dejectedly, “I know, I know.”

I then said to her, “As a woman of color, I think you should care. Isn’t there a way to stop this nonsense?”

“Well, not anymore,” she answered. “Things are different now. There’s nothing anyone can do.” She sounded like she was holding back a whimpering sadness. I was about to put on the top garment when she said, “You have to take off your bra. Hospital policy.”

“What? Why do I have to take off my bra?”

“It’s just one of the rules.”

“I don’t see the point in taking off my bra, it’s not a breast exam,” I was feeling more violated as each leg of this new protocol was unfolding. “This is completely unreasonable.”

She left the room to see if the doctor would allow it as I stood there shirtless and in blue concentration camp pants, my hands cold as ice and shivering because there was no heat in the room. When she came back she said with a tinge of pity, “You have no choice. You need to take it off. It’s policy.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” I said.

“Sorry, I have to stand here until you do it.”

Wow, talk about instant degradation. How far can you break down a Jew before they take your God away? I couldn’t believe the blatantly inhumane way I was being treated. In any hospital emergency room, taking off an undergarment was never asked of you. Certainly not demanded of you. Did they think I was going to strangle myself with it? I almost wished I had suicidal tendencies. It would put a final end to these ongoing nightmare atrocities that were the tapestry of my life. I then turned with disgust toward the camera, dropped my bra in front of it and said, “There. Now I have my bra off. Is everyone happy? I am a true Jew.”

The situation I now found myself facing was increasingly becoming darker and more ominous to me, threatening me on a level of oppression I had never known before. What was really going on here? I have been trying to get a damn agent for my book for over a year regarding this pathetic life story of mine, and I can’t get it published fast enough before another violation of my civil rights occurs again. How many times do I have to be pulled away from my life into their insane program of rat cages and zoo bars before anyone gets to hear what I have to say about this insanity? I have to have it happen again and again forever until the day I die with my son continually taken away from me in the process? People, wake the f*** up! They are tearing apart families over this lunatic program. For what?

Dr. Harding walked in again acting a little differently, like she was changing her strategy and said, “Now all this stuff about Nazis and Jews, you know we are trying to do what’s best for everyone, right?”

Did she just say, “we?” Remember, I thought to myself, they are being recorded.

I tried my best to keep up with the clone and said, “Well, what is the purpose? I mean, really, what is the purpose of what you are doing? Just tell me why you think I need to stay? For what? What is the reason? Why do I need to stay here? Just let me go home with my family. I want to speak to you together with my family so that I know what is being said.”

“Your family is being held in the other room. We are talking to them and they are concerned.”

“Concerned about what? I’m reminding you that I am protected by the United States Constitution, and you have no right to put me away for a reason that cannot be explained to me by even you.”

“We looked up your records. You have a history of living with bipolar disorder.”

“Yeah, I know, that’s the mark you gave me 20 years back. I don’t see my personality as a disorder. I see it as a gift,” I said.

“Well, let’s just agree to disagree on that, shall we? You’ll be staying here and I am the one to make that decision. I am a doctor, after all.”

“But what do you have on me? Do you need to see my resume to see that I am a successful woman in my field, that I am a contributing member of my community? You know nothing about me so how can you make decisions regarding my life? I am one of the executive board members of Lake Lincolndale Property Owners’ Association, I have proven myself in my career and in my success with professional relationships and dear friends on every level. Doesn’t that factor in? Do I need to bring every one of my friends in here to vouch for my character? I want to know, what is the purpose of this? What is the reason? I want to speak to another person. I want my voice to be heard!”

“I am the head doctor on this unit and I am managing your case.”

“What you are doing is wrong,” I said.

She responded, “If you feel you’d like to put your wish to be discharged in writing, we will review it and then you can take it to court next Friday and…”

I cut her off, “Woah, court? You have already decided that I’m in for at least a week until next Friday? For what? Just tell me, for what? For what reason are you doing this? For what reason?”

“Your parents are concerned.” She spoke to me like I was a young girl of 20.

“I’m a 45 year old grown woman. My parents cannot put me away in your prison camp for no good reason. I wish to speak to them.” She ignored me. Over the years my poor parents had been brainwashed to such a degree that they couldn’t even see me anymore as their daughter. They had been told by the psychiatric institution to watch vigilantly for my behaviors, for triggers of a relapse in my “bipolar disorder.” This atrociously savage think tank had successfully trained my unsuspecting parents to believe that it was the best thing to do for the safety of society at large to barge down my door of my own home, grab the Jew as quick as they possibly could, and then with the threat of punishment of criminal law, lock me up in an asylum. And this wasn’t the first time.

I knew what I was up against with my previous experiences with this institution, so seeing as the headmaster clone wasn’t budging I had no choice but to comply because non-compliance can be held against me in a court of law. But I knew it was a hoax and a crime. They didn’t need to explain to me why they were putting me away in a mental asylum and taking me away from my son, but I needed to appeal to a judge in a court of law next week and somehow explain how I got myself in there? Well, if I had to, I had to. But this so-called medical system was a disgusting sham.

I said, “OK, I’ll stay the night, fine. But I know my rights. I can get out tomorrow in 24 hours if I so choose.”

“Well, I as the psychiatrist treating your case, will determine upon further observation when you are ready to go home.” Who the hell was this witch to tell me that she had the right to be the only one to have say over when they let me go home? That only she had the authority and the expertise to conclude if I was a good enough mother to see my son again? I was caught in a Twilight Zone episode from hell.

“You have no right to do what you are doing because it is unconstitutional and illegal.”

“There is nothing we are doing that is illegal. We have every right to retain you. We are completely protected by the law in retaining your rights.”

It was true. The standard “voluntary” admission to a psychiatric hospital is usually just an agreed to involuntary admission because refusal of voluntary psychiatric treatment or hospitalization, in their eyes, shows a lack of a capacity of the mentally ill reject to consent to what’s best for him. According to their view, the majority of people suffering from severe mental illnesses show limited insight into their illness. They believe that if a manic individual denies that they have any kind of problem or illness that needs treatment, that is actually a symptom of the illness itself.  Because they manage to convince others that our insight is lacking, civil commitment may be initiated by others who are concerned about our behavior—as in this case, my asinine parents—whether they be family members, mental health providers, or the police. In fact, the power of the state is obligated to make the decision that is in the “best interest” of the individual by most clearly reflecting the choice that the individual would have made if she were “competent” to do so. The state has the authority to act on behalf of the protection of society and the general welfare of its citizens against the individual. Just the very label of a mental illness somewhere in one’s medical record could be a prerequisite for civil commitment.

The following is a copy I received of the “Notice of Status and Rights: Emergency Admission” under Section 9.39 Mental Hygiene Law. Notice how this “emergency-status” language has in truth, not from some paranoid delusion within my “mentally ill” imagination, come to strip me permanently of my rights as a citizen of the United States of America supposedly protected by the American Constitution:

There was nothing I could say to stop this hospital from seeing this so-called “episodic incident” as an emergency because of the severity of that bipolar label. By law, the institution and the power of the state have more rights than I do as an individual. And that tiny label tagged to my name determines how every “normal” human being in their system—the doctors, the state, and all others that believe them—sees me. As having a mentally ill mind. And that disgusting truth is a stone-cold fact.

She was preparing to hand me a pill and said I should take it. “I’m not taking any other medication. I am already taking my medication and I am not taking another.”

“Well, it’s an anti-psychotic. I think you should take it.”

“No. I will not take it. I’ll agree to an increase in my sleeping med, Seroquel, but nothing more. I don’t need an anti-psychotic, for Christ’s sake.”

Thank God I knew my psych meds. Once you go on, you can’t get off. And if you wanted to, you’ll have up to at least 6 months to a year of first convincing your psychiatrist that you don’t need it and then weaning off the brain poison before you started at square one again. Years of my life had been wasted on this course of action involving my own brain that in the name of “science,” the psychiatric institution had hijacked as its own.

(Click to read my article: My Story On Meds for more on my experience with pharmaceutical poisoning.) 


The headmaster appeared frustrated with me because I wasn’t complying to her stick in hand. She left the room and shut the light. There were no windows and it was pitch black. I laid there pathetically humbled, brutally beaten psychologically, spiritually weakened, freezing in that cold empty room alone. I begged them to at least get in touch with my models and client at the bodypainting gig I was expected to be at that night. But no one listened. No one asked for their contact information. And my client was never notified that I wasn’t showing up. As if a grown man’s birthday party didn’t matter, but putting a grown woman away as fast as they possibly could was the most responsible thing the system could do for the benefit of the larger community. I begged the nurses who wandered in and out to get someone to call my models who were traveling hours to meet me, but I lay prostrate in inmate’s clothes with my voice trailing off into a dissipating ether as they chose not to hear. No one cared. My life and people within it didn’t matter. They weren’t real. Only the threat of my potential imagined violent actions implied by my wretched label kept me there. But nothing in the real world was committing me. In my real life. I was nothing to them. Nothing more than a number.

About 30 minutes had gone by and then a nurse came in to inform me they already had made my bed in the asylum. They took away all my belongings—necklace, clothes, boots, personals, IDs, bag and phone—even socks and my hair rubber bands that I kept on my right wrist. Stripped of all dignity once again, I entered the hellhole with my voice unheard and my personhood disrespected. The sad thing was, I couldn’t write that damn book fast enough, because every time I was in the thick of it—because of the brainwash that had been ironed into the minds of my loved ones—there was always someone lurking behind the corner sizing my behaviors up to match what this stupid paragraph described me as in their psychiatric bible, The Diagnostic Manual for Mental Illnesses (or DSM), for when I needed to be admitted again. And again and again. It just never stopped. But this was my life as a Jew under their Nazi medical program. And there was nothing I could do.

I thought of Elie Wiesel, the  Romanian-born American Jewish writer, professor, political activist, Nobel Laureate and Holocaust survivor, who in his Nobel Lecture given on December 11, 1986, said a thing or two that made some sense about this sentiment at hand: “Each one of us felt compelled to record every story, every encounter. Each one of us felt compelled to bear witness…we thought it would be enough to tell of the tidal wave of hatred which broke over the Jewish people for men everywhere to decide once and for all to put an end to hatred of anyone who was “different”…the people around us refused to listen; and even those who listened refused to believe; and even those who believed could not comprehend. Of course they could not. Nobody could. The experience of the camps defies comprehension. Have we failed? I often think we have.”

No, Elie. You have not failed. They have failed. They have failed you as they have failed me—the sleeping masses. I cried softly and felt his words seep into the bottom of my soul. I began to split off into my own mind for I felt protected there as this “real” world around me was devolving right before me into a zombie apocalypse with the clones in charge hailing the Furher’s name and gassing us “mentally ill” nutjobs during that long night as we filed in one by one. What was this world coming to? I couldn’t bear the violent cruelty of it any longer. I never did see my parents again that night. And I knew that sadly, going forward, this psychiatric institution had permanently destroyed the relationship I had built with them over the years for good. They had succeeded in separating kin. But Elie told me to be strong. I may have been entering their concentration camp as a marked Jew, but now, there was nowhere they could hide.


Please continue by clicking the link below: 

PART II   The Ultimate Violation of My Civil Liberties: The Final Lockdown


Apr 09

The Ultimate Violation of My Civil Liberties PART II: The Final Lockdown; I am a Jew. And I’ll prove it!

If you haven’t first read PART I, please click on the link below before continuing:

The Ultimate Violation of My Civil Liberties  PART I: The Final Lockdown  

Otherwise, continue reading:


During the end of the 19th century, there was an explosive growth of mental asylums in both America and Europe built with taxpayers dollars. The standing of psychiatrists, however, did not improve in the eyes of society until the field came up with a biological solution for why people were suffering with emotional disorders. They sought to give credence to their ideology about the human mind by cloaking it in the language of medicine—as they came up with the medical model, which is the same model to date that supports the mass drugging of millions in order to force people to change who they are under some prescribed notion of fitting into one’s insane society. Basically, whatever is done to make the patient more manageable was simply called a treatment. The model was derived from a late 19th century notion from Professor Wilhelm Wundt at Leipzig University in Germany.  In 1879 he declared that thoughts, personality, and behavior are nothing more than chemical reactions in the brain. He stated, “Observations of the facts of consciousness is of no avail until these are derived from chemical and physical processes. Thought is simply the result of brain activity.” Now, there was a new definition of man as a soulless organism. Behaviorist psychology carried this further with their belief that all people are animals and can be trained like animals. Human behavior does not derive from the soul because they believe there is no soul. They believe all behavior can be manipulated and shaped through conditioning.

This science without a soul crap led to behavioral modification treatments still used today in psychiatry over a century and a half later, and nobody wishes to question the origin of these treatments. Instead of using torture as in days of old, they simply now turn to meds but the treatment has the same goals in mind: change the person so that she becomes subservient and more manageable in the hands of the “doctors.”

Now that I was locked up for at least a week, I dreadfully realized that my absence from my life back home was not only going to affect me but many other lives as well. I was in the middle of directing a play for a professional Westchester theatrical company, and I had upcoming rehearsals all week, including our Tech rehearsal, and the following weekend was opening night, which I was prohibited from attending because of these nuts. It didn’t matter that I only spent hours and hours on my off-nights from Jack plugging away at auditioning, blocking, and designing the show. No, my life didn’t matter. My real life didn’t matter. Only this imagined one they conjured up in their own heads through their stupid baby “science.” It’s like they get to prance around and play dress up and make pretend they are doctors all day telling everyone what was wrong with them but never looking at themselves in the mirror. I couldn’t believe what this institution was doing to not only me, but everyone else associated with me. Shamed about the whole affair, at the nursing station phone I got in touch with the playwright and didn’t even know where to begin, but told her I had to step down from my position, but with much regret and through no wish of my own, and that I was in a very terrible situation, and that I would explain everything to her at some point but couldn’t now do so because I was not able to. Basically, I was a criminal and locked up. Ironically, I was directing her comedic play, The Second Coming, which was a one-act about the rapture taking place in a survivalist bunker in middle America. Jesus comes crashing through the door with a rifle and like a movie announcer declares over thunder in the background, “The prince of peace is back…only this time he’s pissed!” Oh, what I would’ve given to have Jesus Christ show up at this scandalous scene with a rifle in hand at my defense. Five actors, the playwright, and the entire artistic and production team would be affected by my absence, and the hospital couldn’t care less. Again, my personal achievements and relationships I had developed over the years meant absolutely nothing to their “kind.” It was much more important to them that I was off the street—or out of my house, as a more accurately pathetic matter—and not harming anyone else in the imagined threatened population of superiors.

The good nurses only saw half of what was going on behind the language and actions of this institution but overall could be relatively trusted if you behaved. They were mom and brother types and they really just wanted to help, but they weren’t completely ignorant of the oppression that was roaming through those halls either. On one occasion when I was crying to my friend on the phone explaining the brutality of my revocation of civil liberties that was occurring, after I hung up, one of the kind nurse technicians brought me aside to the quiet room and said to me, “Please, do yourself a favor and don’t let anyone see you cry. If you are upset, go into the bathroom (for the rooms had cameras) and cry softly with the shower running. You’re better off.” I was thankful for her advice because as I was abandoned by my family for good, I was crying in full fits at least three times a day. I had to make sure I hid that because showing signs of emotion is symptomatic as a marked bipolar.

I was bored out of my mind during my stay so I decided to exercise to take off the edge. 16 laps through the halls around the nursing station led to a mile, and now I was up to two a day. I must have looked frantic to them because one nurse told me one night on my 30th lap, “Does pacing make you feel better?”

Pacing? Jesus, they must see me as a true imbecile. “I was actually exercising,” I responded. After that I made sure—because the nurses were required to observe and record notes on you throughout the stay which could directly impact how fast they thought you were normal enough to be discharged—whenever I did my laps, I announced upon several passes at the nursing station loud and clear, “I’m doing my exercising now!”—to ensure that their recorded observations would not be construed by my assigned psychiatrist as symptomatic. Each day we were given a recovery plan sheet of goals and admission to possible “symptoms” and I never wrote anything more than: “I feel great” and “waiting for discharge.” I am certain they did not believe for a second I was functioning normally.

I was still considering pleading my case in court to get out of there if they should consider holding me another week, but I was sternly warned by the good nurses that I should not pursue a court dismissal because no one was ever known to win. I saw I was just like every other poor soul in there with no civil liberties to claim, but I didn’t see my chances of getting out of there were any better under the dimwitted decision making of the ol’ headmaster, Dr. Harding, to have mercy on my Jew-ass and let me go by her own whim—or doctor know-it-all expertise. Halfway through my week, I was thankfully assigned a new psychiatrist because Dr. Harding had dropped my case from her list of patients. The clone was through being unnerved by me, I suppose. She just couldn’t stand hearing the words Nazi and Jew anymore. On my last sit-down with her she said again, “So this Nazi and Jew stuff. Are you still having those thoughts?”

I answered flatly, “They are called concepts. Everyone loves to watch Spielberg’s Schindler’s List, but nobody wants to walk away learning anything.”

My new psychiatrist was chief of the department. He was a nice guy, and when I told him my story, he seemed to actually have some compassion for me. He was a Jew. Well, I don’t know if he was a descendant from the bloodline, but you could tell the Nazis apart from the Jews on the staff. The Jews were trying to help people and the Nazis believed in Master Race ideology. They saw us vermin to be the inferior ones with poor genetics, and they were born to keep us in line.

“So, what got you in here?” he asked.

“My brainwashed parents put me away because I was being creative in my own home. I am only here because I have a mark of bipolar disorder. I have a number. And I don’t consider my personality a disorder. It is a gift.”

He seemed stumped. “Ok, well, now that you’re here, how are you going to get yourself out and stay out?”

Honestly, I didn’t even know what to say anymore. Just tell me how to act, please, and I’ll do my best to be like you, normal and adjusted to an insane society, and idiotic, and then maybe you can be fooled into believing I am not crazy.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” I answered back. He tried his best to be understanding, but he was a psychiatrist after all.

I did my best to keep a journal when I wasn’t simmering in anger or crying in upset.

A few excerpts are as follows:

6pm, Monday, 3/20/17

I feel persecuted, overwhelmed, scared, anxious, and uncertain about my future. Why here, why now? And yet, I am gaining more and more confidence again in the idea that I’m not nuts.

“No, you are not nuts,” my inner voice answered.

So, in this lifetime, before I get gassed, I will make it out of here alive?

“Of course. You are there for reasons beyond what they appear to be. God is directly involved with this process. He wanted you there for a very distinct reason. Because you are not the one to be put away. In fact, if people like you are continually put away, then the world will die. Simple as that. And that reality better wake everyone the hell up before it gets any worse.”

9:30am, Wednesday, 2/22/17—my Mom’s birthday.

It’s so easy to get amnesia in the hospital so guides, help me piece these images together like a puzzle to make sense of my experience before I was admitted into this Nazi death camp. My life finally felt complete as I had landed terrific connections in both painting and theater. Accomplishments for which I was proud and received admiration for. But here, I am seen as a flat image inside a black and white TV. I am more than a mental illness stat. I am more than a Victorian woman trapped in a bygone era of yesterday. It’s been a long journey, and I knew full well it might go wrong if I wasn’t careful. But I never thought it would manifest like this.


I like Fitzroy, the tech who looks like my friend Roscoe, who inspired me to write my book 20 years back. He holds his demeanor with pride and spirit and when we spoke today, he eased my stress from a level 9 to a level 5. He has a Caribbean accent and a hearty laugh. He knew things that he couldn’t admit to about the psychiatric institution, and when we chatted about it, he would give me a “zip your lip” gesture with his hand. He knew the deal. He told me that no matter what, hold my spirit strong—for that is all we truly have—and have courage.

I’m writing down my positive qualities before I forget: strong character, creative, inspiring to others, beautiful heart, supportive to others, accepting of others and myself, courageous.

We sat through Meds Therapy in group today. The afternoon doctor shared with us some info about anti-psychotic medications—the ones they were ready to put me on within minutes after I entered the hospital in the ER—one in which I refused to take knowing full well what it could do to my brain. It’s for “disorganized thinking” for non-clones and puts a stop to actual real human being thinking, like Haldol did to me years back. The doctor told us, “We don’t know enough to say exactly what’s going on,” in reference to a question about chemical imbalances. Wow, you don’t know everything about the brain, doctor? I’m shocked.

4:10pm, Thursday, 3/23/17

Thank God for Elaine. A special woman of 66 years of age, who had a cool, intelligent, sweet presence. She made everything tolerable here and kept me focused and my mood light. She’s a reader. A friend. I look at my roommate. So sad. So charming and pretty. A young grad student in political science at Columbia University. One of the promising ones who might one day make a change in our society for the better. She’s hearing them too, and instantly the Nazi system has taken over her life, with her parents, as mine did, trying to do the right thing and listen to the “doctors” putting the “voices” from her ancestors and friends on the other side to a stop for good.

5:35pm, Friday, 3/24/17

I feel the presence of Carrie Fisher with me on this stay—labeled bipolar herself, she wrote several books on the matter. She dealt with the pathetic subject with humor and even had the boldness to request that her ashes be put in a big Prozac capsule urn after she went onto the other side.

She told me, “Ok, girl. Even though you are currently no Princess Leia, in fact you are a pretty pathetic, ugly-looking, bug-eyed, alien renegade right now, you need to remember this journey—this crazy delivery into the hell-hole, Nazi Furher’s jail cell—is all happening for a reason. Because there is a God, and it’s judgment day. It’s true, remember, everything is recorded and taped. You warned them. Now, you are in the dark. You have no access to any internet data, to your research files, to your notes, to that reality you left behind before you entered clone wars. And as crazy as it sounds and as much as it kills you to keep writing about it while you are simultaneously trying to remain sane in the thick of all this…..”.

Oooh…time for dinner.

3:15pm, Saturday, 3/25/17

Last time it seemed to be more in my hands. That maybe I could stay out based on my focus and will. Now, things are different. It is a disgusting, sad crime upon the mental wellness of the minds of Western society that a Nazi-based mind control system has taken over the reasoning of every thinking human being on Earth. Because the only thing my parents and my psychiatrist and the hospital, in fact, have on me based on this stupid philosophy is “proof” of my behaviors with no concern or interest in its context. I believe I will remember everything when I leave because I know I’m in a temporary state of amnesia. For now. But it is not fair or right that I should have this kind of life when I am such a good, caring person who would be there for anyone. But I can no longer risk my life for their stupid ideals. It’s wrong. And I cannot bear to exist under this retarded system anymore. It’s wrong. And I thought I proved it in my book. But no one has read it.

No more hospitalizations. No more misinterpretations. No more repeated stupidity. Only heaven do I invite in, if there is such a thing that could exist on Earth. Which for me would include art, creative expressiveness, music, and writing. 20 frickin’ years have flown by and I feel I have nothing to show for it.

“Well, Jen, what of the masses who feel the same way? Everyone is experiencing some given set of symptoms of “mental illness.” You are not just fighting for your freedom. You’re doing it for everyone. You are doing it for those who have come before you. Masses of people—erased bloodlines and cultures nearly abolished in the name of the white man and that psycho, the Fuhrer. The truth is the truth.”

It’s true. Nothing had changed in two decades, and it had only gotten worse. A friend of mine who was 27 just told me he was also hospitalized a few years earlier for similar ridiculous reasons, but he knew enough to see right through the hogwash. But I was stuck under my parents rule years back, and that never seemed to end.

 11:20am, Sunday, 3/26/17

Ya know, I can go over this again and again with every slant from every perspective. This was not a hospitalization by my own accord. I know I was put here against my will at the mercy of some ridiculous, outdated, and oppressive philosophy about the human psyche. These places are far too dangerous to me. I am at a point of my life where my record can deeply hurt me. I have a child, for Christ’s sake. It’s too much to ask. It’s simply not fair. How can this be legal to lock someone up with no good reason? In America? But they are saying it is legal. They are legally able to do it. It feels like Nazi Germany. Oops, I said it again.

4:45 pm

Before this mess, everything felt great. Summer was fabulous. My career took off. Then I successfully go to the international bodypainting championship in North Carolina in September—a huge task and accomplishment. I was so proud. My bodypainting was thriving, I had gained momentum and professional opportunities in Westchester theater. And yet, everything that took me so long to create, all the joy, the pride, the momentum, the change for the better in my self-esteem and certainty of heart and mind that my life was real, that my mind was beautiful, all of it was squelched in this visit to the gas chamber. How painful. But I need to let logic take over. It seems to be my last resort. If everything is true up until this point, and I know it to be, what does that mean? What logically follows?  What follows is that someone has to pay for this. Because I’m through.

It was only my creativity which got me here. In this stupid hellhole Nazi prison, brought into the ER with nothing but a mark and a sure 10 day-2 week visit into the gas chamber as a marked Bipolar Jew with a headmaster clone who basically confessed in private (and on tape) that she and her kind are Nazis.


Maintaining my sanity and my self-worth this time around in that concentration camp was my most difficult challenge to date. To get an idea of how oppressive the mind control is there, take a peek at how little I was able to access my unique DNA as an artist, the genes that I was continually reminded by them were defective and mentally ill.  With no change in medication except a slight increase in sleeping meds, which I had been on for years, my artistic talents had suddenly vanished when I walked through those doors because their institution saw my artistic process as not something to be celebrated, but something to be viewed as symptomatic. I went to art therapy 1-2 hours daily working on projects that I could continue into the next day, approximately 15 hours in my stay, and this is what I could best come up with because I felt so disconnected to who I was:

To get a true idea of what I can accomplish as an artist in my own world, in my own time, with the confidence I have on a regular healthy and sane basis convinced that my artistic mind is normal, here is a piece I completed with an assistant in the 2016 North American International Bodypainting Championship in 6 hours:


Here’s a 90 minute job I did for a Live Facebook broadcast filmed by Refinery29 that received over 130,000 views:

Here’s one that took me 4 hours for Andy Golub’s 2016 3rd Annual Bodypainting Day in NYC:

Hmmm. Do ya think we can make some connections here, people? Not convinced of any mind control? Not yet? Mmmm…OK.

It was on day 10 when I was finally allowed to return to my life. I took a shower and finally washed my filthy hair and asked for a hairdryer at the counter. “Well, you can dry your hair but you can’t do it by yourself. A nurse can do it for you.”

Their final jab at me. I suppose the Jew shouldn’t leave with any shred of dignity left. I had not even earned the gold star to do my own hair? “Even though I am leaving today, you’re still afraid of me trying to hurt myself with a small appliance?”

“It’s policy. The patients are not allowed to operate a hair dryer.” Absolute mortification. No respect. No need. No reason. No purpose. No nothing. I am nothing but a nothing to this system. And now they are nothing but nothing to me.

I sat in my room as the nurse dried my hair like I was a 90 year old woman who suffered from dementia, with tears streaming down my face. How did I in this lifetime earn such a sentence? How could these good people not see the obvious truth? The proof was as obvious to me as night and day. And that proof was:



NOT Crazy=NOT Crazy


Jen=NOT Crazy

Simple as that.

These people who were running this operation were simply not human. They forgot what it is that makes up a human being. And we have so many non-humans running around down here in charge and making decisions that it’s getting nuts because only the humans are going crazy. And while everyone else thinks they are sounding more “correct” in their thinking, they are only adopting ridiculous trash. The world’s logic system is insane. There is no logic left. Somehow the world had come to believe—for decades and decades, which my life story has proven—that to put someone like me away repeatedly throughout the course of my life on hearsay alone with no trial, no fair proof, and with no good reason, and to put racists and idiots in charge of the world, was in fact, normal. Now how on Earth is that logical? Logically then, and I believe God is Logic, shouldn’t this illogical system show itself to be just that?

It is now clear to me, that it could only be me to do it. I need to reveal that the very logic that is putting me away is insanely illogical for the race to survive. Thus in order to show this, it looks like I need to save the human race from becoming insane idiots. Little did I know I would need to battle the Furher’s return in a world severed from all reason, logic and sense. With my voice unheard and with no ears to listen anyway. This reality, which it seems only I have the capacity to see through my own two naked eyes, is out of a horror flick from Alfred Hitchcock gone on way too long, and I have colossally suffered under its stupidity for two decades of my life! Well, I guess I’m the mental case with the motive, right? Now, beyond any shadow of a doubt—it is 100% clear that I need to do it because I want my freedom back in this so-called damn, free country. They have Hitler, they have genetic extermination on their minds. That’s all they can imagination. Well, I have a better imagination than they do, and I have good genes—no great genes—and I’m going to prove it. And that’s why this was a God imperative because I needed to record it.

Their system is this: They are always right and everything is relative to that point, which is not truth. It is false. How far away are you from the “right” thinking, which is theirs. Their ideas about the human mind and brain. Of course nothing else could be true, after all. Because they are “scientists.” Well, I’m sorry, but what is happening on the inside of these mind control camps is not science, and if anyone is naïve enough and blatantly stupid enough to believe such a thing, then they better go back to Kindergarten baby school Science 101 and learn a thing or two about the scientific method and stop reading all the brainwash Facebook articles that share the perspective of only drug-pushing Big Pharma, which backs only phony biological psychology research that supports their insane treatments. People, how about this? Maybe actually read something first source that’s not on social media? Now, there’s a thought. But that requires a little more head game, I know.

This bogus program has nothing to do with real science, and instead has everything to do with the revocation of civil liberties. As Nobel-Prize winning physicist Richard Feynman wrote forty years ago, “If science is to progress, what we need is the ability to experiment, honesty in reporting results—the results must be reported without somebody saying what they would like the results to have been—and finally—an important thing—the intelligence to interpret the results. An important point about this intelligence is that it should not be sure ahead of time what must be.”

What their “intelligence” saw was a genetically inferior woman with the mark of bipolar disorder who was a mental case Jew. What I saw with my own two eyes that can be validated by the law of time was that Mein Kampf is operating through the cyber links of people who are trying to sleep and using those binaurybeat sleep digitalized programs to do so—while the Fuhrer comes waltzing in with his views and ideals embedding into the collective consciousness of the sleeping masses’ delta brainwaves. What I see is that people are being hauled into asylums under no proven grounds with no trial, and held long term against their will with threat of state imprisonment, and then being convinced they are genetic defects. What I see is that people are being organized and categorized inside the medical system so that when another person wants to tattle on someone to the authorities about something they see another doing, that they don’t like or can’t understand, they can do so and be supported by the laws in place. We are living under the Fuhrer! It’s insanity. Please take a closer look at how this “medical” language plays with our understanding of the true human psyche and try earnestly to see it from my bipolar mind:

When I finally was allowed like a good little puppy to return to my life, or whatever was left of it, I needed to do the final research. Why were they so certain it was legally justifiable to keep me in there for no good reason that they could utter to me? It seemed as though this system was set-up to give the hospitals more rights than their patients. How had it come to this? And then I found it: Kendra’s Law.

In 1999, Governor George Pataki signed Kendra’s Law (Chapter 408 of the Laws of 1999), creating a statutory framework for court ordered Assisted Outpatient Treatment (AOT) to ensure that individuals with mental illness and a history of hospitalizations or violence participate in mental health services appropriate to their needs. Kendra’s Law was named in memory of Kendra Webdale, a young woman who died in January, 1999 after being pushed in front of a New York City subway train by Andrew Goldstein, a man with a history of mental illness and hospitalizations. Kendra’s Law established mechanisms for identifying individuals who, in view of their circumstances and treatment history (which is mandated and unavoidable), were likely to have difficulty living safely in the community without close monitoring and mandatory participation in treatment.

Further, it ensures that NY mental health systems give these individuals priority access to case management and other services deemed necessary to ensure one’s safety and successful community living. Kendra’s Law requires that each county in New York establishes a local AOT program to implement the statute’s requirements, and charges the New York State Office of Mental Health with the responsibility for monitoring and overseeing the implementation of AOT statewide. Eligibility Criteria for AOT Kendra’s Law contains the following summary description of the AOT target population: “…mentally ill people who are capable of living in the community with the help of family, friends and mental health professionals, but who, without routine care and treatment, may relapse and become violent or suicidal, or require hospitalization.”

Through twenty years of complying to this psychiatric system, no matter how successful I had become or happy and well-balanced, they had stuck to this idea about me that I could “relapse” at any given moment because the DSM forecasted such a thing. My family had reacted in such terror for no good reason because they have been brainwashed over the years to undoubtedly take the doctors’ word for it that their daughter is “mentally ill.” All the while, I had no idea that the doctors were backed up by law to continually have the right to take over my life, and the only thing I could do to fight such a thing was to go to court and lose. And, painfully I understood that going to court would only solidify my record into compulsory and possible ongoing unneeded taxpayer dollars treatment based on my past hospitalizations alone without any concern for the present non-danger in question. Please take a look at my latest “record” of my mental illness this time around.

Most of my hospitalizations resulted from either my parents or my ex collapsing into fear that I was going into an “episode” because the institution over the years told them to be on guard for so-called “symptoms” that are normal for my personality type. Yes, my personality type. I am an artist. A marked bipolar artist Jew. They are killing the bipolar artists and the schizophrenic mystics, and no one even cares.

Well, I go for something a little larger minded on My Patient’s Bill of Rights. It’s called My Human Bill of Rights and it’s taken from Judith Belmont’s 2016 book, “150 More Group Therapy Activities and Tips.” It’s actually one of the worksheets they give the imbeciles on the inside during group therapy and yet, they don’t even know they are completely ignored during the admission routine. Eight of these I demand as a human being:

  1. I have a right to be treated with respect.
  2. I have a right to not let others control me.
  3. I have a right to stand up for my rights.
  4. I have a right to express my needs and wants.
  5. I have a right to accept myself for who I am.
  6. I have a right to set boundaries and limits with others.
  7. I have a right to have privacy and my own personal space.
  8. I have a right to follow my dreams, interests and passions.

Thank you, but no. I do not wish to be you. I wish to be me. I do not wish to think like the clones. I wish to think like me. And I wish for you to get the hell out of my life. You know nothing about anything that is important. Leave me and my son alone. I thought I already achieved movement in my fight against this insane program, and yet, until this book gets out there, my freedom and civil liberties are dangerously compromised on a daily basis. They know my social security number. They know where I live. They have managed to make my parents their soldiers. And they are protected by the law. But I will not be silenced! I am a Native American, and I deserve my freedom! I will not be convicted for past crimes of the heart or for fits of artistic genius. I am no longer apologizing for myself, and I will not back down!

I implore you, my friends, if you are moved in any way by my story, please share it with a friend or family member, or 5 or 10. Share this article on other Facebook community pages so that this warning gets out there to the masses. Because this is not only a personal battle. Our kids’ freedoms are at stake. Mothers, we are well aware of the relentless labeling in school systems today. And if your kid should ever need, or fall prey to one of these institutions and have a few visits within a five year period, (almost every psychiatric hospital has an adolescent wing), their freedoms will be revoked overnight and you will not be able to do anything about it. This is reality. It’s not a heated debate, and no, it’s not frilly Facebook feline mini-flicks. We are living in precarious times politically as well, and we have no idea what the future brings and how fast the list of the “mentally ill” of our society will be pulled out to protect all the normal clones from us nutzos. Please, for the love of God, share my message. I deserve to live freely in America. I was born here, I pay my taxes, and I am protected by the United States Constitution. Aren’t I?

I believe I have fairly shown how this psychiatric institution has violated my civil liberties on every level. They do not have the right, based on their ridiculous assumptions about what is going on in my mind, or even worse, what is potentially going on in my mind derived from their limited and disgusting imaginations, to take away my American freedom. I told every professional that evaluated me and fairly warned them that I had written a book about this oppressive mental hygiene system, and that I am protected by the United States Constitution to be free to operate in this country as a free American, and that I was recording what was going on. They looked at me like I was an oppositional nutjob—not the kind of demeanor that signals normalcy for a functioning bipolar. As an American I have the freedom to be who I am without having to consistently prove myself to those who are married to this ridiculously retarded, false Master Race ideology. I never believed it, and I am fighting on the front lines for those who are also oppressed today and for our labeled children who are now, or will one day be, as well.

Remember, in the end, as the story goes, God saves His Chosen People. Won’t you stand by my crusade and join me as a Jew? My book is coming soon, and I assure you, with the information I have collected over ten years, and the 6 forced hospitalizations I have endured in that interim, I have undoubtedly and irrefutably proven on every level, as they go down in history for being the ultimate set of morons who ever walked the face of this Earth, that I’m Not As Crazy As You Think.

Read something other than what all the drug-pushing biological psychology Big Pharma internet articles are telling you is true. Try this one to begin with and enlarge your vision:

There is no such thing as a genetic “mental illness.” It is a myth and the Nazi regime’s wet dream come true. Being bipolar or schizophrenic is not an illness. It’s a gift. We are depressed because this insane world is crushing our spirits. We suffer from anxiety because there is nowhere to go but downward in this lunatic matrix. We are obsessive compulsive because we are trying to remain in control as the world speeds up into nutty oblivion. We are suicidal because we can’t stand to live another day in this oppressive world. I am fighting this system on every level because if I don’t, I will undoubtedly be put away for no better reason they can come up with than “loss of balance.” It is enough to inhumanely imprison me again and again as my dignity continues to be shattered and my birthname destroyed.

Please Help:

If you know anyone who might be interested in publishing this story online or in print, please message me immediately via Facebook or email me at jengaitasiciliano@gmail.com. Please print my story, share it with friends at work, your community organizations and place of worship

If you are a lawyer or know someone who is, and you believe I have a human rights case or civil liberties violations case concerning laws on the books that are unconstitutional, please contact me immediately. If you would like to be on my personal email list and receive future newsletters on my work and anti-psychiatry campaign, please direct message me with your email address and I will add you to it. And please check out my blog: www.notascrazyasyouthink.com, for more articles and information on this urgent subject matter. Thanks in advance for your support for helping me stay free in the land of the free. I am an American after all, and I do believe in the final hour that the United States Constitution will protect me.

To reread PART I of this story click on pic:


You can find me on facebook under: Jennifer Gaita Siciliano

Email: jengaitasiciliano@gmail.com

Phone: 914 374 4532

Website: www.notascrazyasyouthink.com

Follow my business FB page: facebook.com/notascrazyasyouthink


Aug 11

The Somers Record: Somers’ Siciliano Creates Living, Breathing Art

Somers Body Painter Ready for International Competition




August 3, 2016 at 12:04 PM

SOMERS, N.Y. – Somers artist Jen Siciliano has an impressive body of work.

For the past five years, the former English teacher has found a new career in face and body painting, earning national recognition along the way. Next month, Siciliano will compete in the North American Bodypainting Championship in North Carolina. Inclusion in the event isn’t easy. A panel of experts rigorously screens artists worldwide.

Read More…


Jun 20

My Story On Meds

The Psychiatric Sentence

Yes, I’ve been laced on psychiatric medication for 22 years. After my failure of a trip to India in 1994, (where I suffered from acute dysentery and almost died, and subsequently had a near-death-experience on my plane trip home), I had a mental meltdown due to the trauma, and I landed in a psychiatric hospital. I had no idea of the dangers that lurked ahead. Thereafter classified as a mental case, I began early on to understand how the psychiatric medical establishment was not in the business of health. They were in the business of sickness. And the pharmaceutical industry only wanted customers. Today the business is booming more than ever before because the pharmaceutical industry is funding studies to prove their primary business model of biological psychology, which supports the need and use of pharmaceutical drugs. The news, the studies, the research flooding in all over the internet supporting this biomedical model is inaccurate, inconclusive, and not scientific. It’s funded by Big Pharma with the interest in keeping us forever dependent on their food.

As soon as I was inside their system, reconditioning was already taking place as they tried to convince me I was sick. And as soon as I got on the meds, all my memories about India had begun to fade. When the medication suppresses your racing thoughts, it also instigates amnesia of emotional memories. Although the medication had eliminated from my memory the depth of my pain, I sadly learned that the goal of brain meds was not to help you work through the trauma, but to simply suppress it in your unconscious.

After the long run of evaluations and without anyone really knowing what was actually wrong with me or why I had slipped into psychosis, the doctors casually prescribed to me a life of medication supplemented with an indeterminate, ongoing regimen of therapy. I was at a devastating loss because after what I had just experienced, I was as vulnerable as a person could possibly be. My usual frame of reference was sorely dampened, and I could no longer see through the same lens as my “normal” friends and family.  And since I felt I could no longer understand my reality, I thought I might be better off trusting in something other than my own judgment, which the psychiatric institution seemed to offer. So succumbing to an extensive treatment of meds seemed to be a sane solution at first. Little did I know my body would become addicted to such drugs, despite the claim by the pharmaceutical companies that these medications are non-addictive.

Over the course of time, the psychiatric institution created a world for me where my family, friends and medical team became the main directors of my life. They were assigned the task of watching for my abnormal activities, wants, and drives, and were instructed to make sure I took my meds no matter what. But the medication they forced upon me made me physically fatigued and mentally comatose. I knew instantly that my dreams of being a Broadway actress were quashed because my once very expressive and animated nature was eradicated under the drug.

On the meds, my artistic talent was dying a slow death.  They annihilated my creativity, and my very imaginative essence was being systematically stripped away as they helped me live a “normal,” average lifestyle like everybody else. Living a “normal” lifestyle can be soul-crushing for a passionate bipolar artist. The stuff that makes life worth living for us is inside those wandering states of mad inspiration that allow us to create art within our minds and then translate it through our mediums. In order to achieve something beautiful, often the artist needs less scheduled time and more time alone wandering around their homes talking to themselves and looking crazy. It is a process and all of us have different ones. But they are all alike in that they can only be accessed through a commitment to inspiration, which is eradicated on the meds. Many creative bipolars risk getting off meds to return to a better life with moments of brilliance, but because they are addicted, those days are over. Once a person goes on these brain meds, when they try to remove themselves, they are much more likely to suffer from the “symptoms” that got them into a weak mental state to begin with. And over the course of time, if one cannot find decent meds to help them live within their own natural skin, they are commissioned a life lacking depth, meaning, and inspiration. This is no way to live.

The establishment with tell you that not taking medications as instructed is the most common contributing factor in the relapse of the illness. They see it as a major clinical problem with people who have bipolar disorder. They believe that people with bipolar disorder fail to comply with their treatment because they do not understand the “nature” of their illness. Neither do their family members or friends. So with no one knowing what this illness actually is, the psychiatric institution has somehow been assigned to be the caretaker to all those who only they can recognize as sick. They go further and say that failure to comply with medication can be a sign of the illness itself. So one has no choice but to comply because otherwise everyone really thinks you’re crazy if you don’t, and they have the proof in your behavior. Bipolar artists do not comply with their meds not because they are mentally ill but because they have gifts. When one is off the meds, the kind of explosive artistic energy we all need in order to be our most evolved selves, daring to achieve Maslow’s hierarchical stage of self- actualization through our gifts, is nullified. The meds I took for years controlled the same part of the brain that also helps artists access creativity.

And yet, we have no choice but to remain on them because mental illness treatment plans can be enforced if the doctor deems it necessary, and non-compliance not only goes in your permanent record but also has potential for an actual court hearing. And bottom line, many of us are addicted, and personally, I would need a team of doctors working around the clock to reverse the chemical alterations the meds created in my brain over the course of the last twenty years.



Disability By Prescription 

For half my adult life I had barely tolerated the slew of drug cocktails that were prepared with a maraschino cherry just for me. Anti-psychotics, mood stabilizers, the works. The side effects were debilitating with everything from dry mouth, slurred speech, restlessness, tremors, inability to read, and chronic fatigue. The drugs had successfully molded me into a full-fledged imbecile.

The delightful anti-psychotic I was first prescribed, Haldol, was supposed to suppress psychosis but the drugs emotionally tranquilized me, creating a black heaviness around my thoughts, making it impossible to express myself verbally with the slightest bit of inflection. Since the drug is also used to control motor and speech tics in people with Tourette’s syndrome, it’s no wonder that I could barely talk. I basically couldn’t react to my world emotionally, and the meds mentally numbed me, which shaved away the edge from my personality.

The anti-psychotic Risperdal, which is used to treat bipolars, schizophrenics and autistic children, was so deadening to my intellect that I might as well have gone back to nursery school and learn how to read again from square one. I remember my mother during this time gave me her thick copy of the dense Anna Karenina. “I read this once when I was depressed,” she said. But when I leafed through it my mind was so deadened by the meds that I could barely get through the first paragraph. An English literature major in college, now this book seemed to me practically impossible to ever comprehend in this lifetime. The drug caused me to have flattened, dead feelings and a personality wrapped in a straightjacket. Cogentin was the co-treatment.  It’s used to treat the symptoms of Parkinson’s disease, such as muscle spasms, stiffness, tremors, sweating, drooling, and poor muscle control. So after they create the imbecile, they treat the symptoms associated with what the meds have created.

During the time I was on Meleril, I had a shitload of strange ticks, making me not the most attractive one at bars. As with all antipsychotics, Meleril has been linked to cases of tardive dyskinesia—an often permanent neurological disorder characterized by slow, repetitive, purposeless and involuntary movements. I was fully aware that I wasn’t able to stop my legs from shaking or my head from twitching while I sat in public on the bus no matter how much mental attention I gave it.

Then there was Lithium, my favorite. While trying to keep mania at bay, the drug creates a feeling of nothingness which makes it difficult to think, much less be creative. I was the least creative in my life during the time I was on lithium, and it’s one of the main drugs used to treat bipolar artists. I also suffered neurological effects from the drug’s toxicity and had a sweet-ass postural tremor in my hands, which made it impossible for me to paint. But the doctors felt it was worth it because my “illness” was being treated. The cognitive effects were abysmal. I had slowed reaction times, impaired memory, and a mind of blackness. Naturally, dysphoria set in.

On the anticonvulsant, Depakote, (which is also used to treat epilepsy), I had to worry about liver toxicity and had monthly bloodwork for years to keep my doctor abreast of my levels. During this time period, because there was no generic drug yet for Depakote, I was forced to spend over $200 a month on meds, (which made each pill about $7), so that I could be like everyone else. This mind-numbing medication stimulates an internal time clock, which makes it feel easier to adapt to scheduled time all the while killing an artist’s need for inner spatial freedom within which to operate in a timeless creative state. I gained a handsome amount of weight while on Depakote, while I walked through my day in a lethargic movement with a slowness of thought connections. The drug deadened my cognitive acuteness, my memory was weak as ever, and it ruined my ability to commit full attention to anything.

In the book, Flowers for Algernon by Danielle Keyes, mentally retarded Charlie Gordon is chosen by a team of scientists to undergo an experimental surgery designed to boost his intelligence. After rising to genius status, Charlie becomes despairingly frustrated because his scientific knowledge has advanced beyond Professor Nemur’s, the man responsible for the experiment. He feels that Nemur treats him just like another lab animal, refusing to recognize his humanity. After his intellectual apex is reached in the experiment, he declines from a state of mental virtuosity through one of average intelligence and back to retardation. The reader sees how tragic it is to lose such an expansive state of mind because with his loss of supreme intelligence comes an obliteration of his free will to create the life he was seemingly destined to inherit.

Not one of my doctors seemed to care that I was once highly intelligent and now appeared retarded because these results suggested that I was responding well to proper medical treatment. They bought into the mind control, and would probably agree with Harvard psychiatrist, Dr. Abraham Myerson when he said, “The reduction of intelligence is an important factor in the curative process…The fact is that some of the very best cures that one gets are in those individuals whom one reduces almost to amentia (feeble-mindedness)…”.

At one time I considered myself a gifted, talented individual, and I had high hopes in fulfilling my big dreams of becoming a successful actress and writer. But the meds made me disabled, and I had to let all those dreams go. In my twenties, the formative years of my adulthood, while I appeared retarded on bad meds, my peers were experiencing personal growth and achievement in their fields, confident in launching their lives with the belief that they had the capacity to make their way in the world, feeling safe with a dream for tomorrow. On my end, the meds caused my regular interaction with the world to be an inadequate embarrassment. I despised ingesting these chemicals for causing such grief in my life. I longed to perform, but the new medication sedation simply would not let me. I humbly left theater, and my life soon changed into one with no passion nor ability to become the artist I was meant to be, which was encoded in my DNA.



Mind Control

In time, as I grew older and wiser, I began to see that the men in charge long ago had interests in controlling the minds of a certain sect of the population. The drug was made and symptoms were created later to mark certain types of people who had trouble adjusting to an insane society.  And yet, many who are considered “mentally well” and fit into the jobs and expectations of the beehive community, are really not healthy at all. They exhibit plenty of “symptoms” of mental illness, but because they fit into our current structure, they are regarded as normal and mentally well, never having to contend with the illegitimacy of the psychiatric institution. In the words of the Indian philosopher and social commentator, Jiddu Krishnamurti, “It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society.” The medicated consumers, (as the mental health industry calls them), who I met along the way who couldn’t adjust on the outside had some of the most incredible gifts and insights into the meaning of life, but they were considered the ill of our society. Somehow we have been led to believe that their brains are mentally defective.

There was nobody who could see the attempt at mind control shaped by prescription meds that was leading us astray, but I was finally waking up to the bullshit. They couldn’t see what I saw, what psychiatrist, Nathan Kline described perfectly in 1967:


Those of us who work in the field see a developing

potential for nearly a total control of human emotional

states, mental functioning, and will to act. These human

phenomena can be started, stopped or eliminated by the

use of various types of chemical substances. What we can

produce with our science now will affect the entire society.


Sanctioned in 1953, the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency designed and undertook an illegal and clandestine experimental mind control program called MKULTRA. In 1973, the program was halted, but the program’s findings have influenced modern day psychiatry to a lengthy degree—especially in the area of pharmaceutical drugs.  The CIA was particularly interested in research involving the use of drugs or psychological deprogramming to alter mental states. A CIA document that was included in the transcript of the 1977 US Senate hearings on MK ULTRA shows the CIA’s ambition to develop drugs that would transform individuals and society.  A number of psychiatric drugs developed since 1955 reflect the CIA’s agenda in the program. The document starts on page 166. It’s labeled “Draft,” dated 5 May 1955. The following illustrates a number of desired drugs the CIA wished to develop:

  • Materials and physical methods which will produce amnesia for events preceding and during their use.
  • Substances which produce physical disablement such as paralysis of the legs, acute anemia, etc.
  • Substances which alter personality structure in such a way that the tendency of the recipient to become dependent upon another person is enhanced.
  • Substances which will lower the ambition and general working efficiency of men when administered in undetectable amounts.
  • A material which can be surreptitiously administered and which in very small amounts will make it impossible for a man to perform any physical activity whatsoever.

I have a lifetime of experience on these substances, and I can say with conviction that I have experienced every one of these effects on the brain. I think it’s about time we rethink this psychiatric model because it’s too damn close to successfully creating an ignoramus mind controlled society who believe that only chemicals in a laboratory can cure their ills.

Scottish-born Dr. Donald Cameron was the psychiatrist who was president of the American Psychiatric Association from 1952–1953, and was best known for his MK ULTRA-related and other behavior modification and mind control research. Dr. Cameron saw the human brain as an information-processing machine, similar to that of a computer. Cameron essentially believed mental illness could be cured by erasing bad programming recorded in the mind of a poorly functioning individual and replacing it with good programming. Part of this technique involved heavy use of drugs. After de-patterning the human mind—after scrambling it up and emptying it of any organized content, or “washing it clean”—Cameron induced amnesia by heavily drugging up the patient. Keeping patients asleep for days generates the loss of space/time perception. The patient would then be retaught new conditioning through extensive cognitive reprogramming. These practices were commonly used on the inside of mental institutions and continued in the outpatient programs as well, and if you were unlucky, the practice of mental reconditioning was brought right into the hospital psychiatrist’s office later on down the line for an indefinite length of time.

During my 2012 stay when I was illegally held in the mental hospital by unlawful detainment, on one afternoon after Tai Chi class was finished, in the common area I overheard my roommate Rachel being spoken to like a retarded child by her psychiatrist. Rachel sat with an incredulous look on her face, which I am sure translated into a bitchy attitude towards her doctor who was trying to convince her she needed double the meds for her treatment plan.

Rachel lashed back, “But I don’t want any more. I’m sick of sleeping all day.”

“Well, I understand how you may feel, but you don’t really understand what you need to get better,” said the wise one.

Rachel did not yield, “Why then? Tell me why you think I need more?”

“Because you are not responding well to the meds. You have a poor attitude and don’t know what you are saying. Your thinking has not yet returned to normal. More meds will allow you to further relax and think straight again.”

Yeah, a catatonic state is the true manifestation of a normal mind. The tone and the language in which the staff spoke down to us infuriated me because I saw so clearly how they were brainwashed by the system.



Bad Meds

I take meds today for one reason alone. Without them I cannot sleep. And if I cannot sleep, I linger too long in my shamanic journeys and enter a dream state in my waking hours that is similar to a deep REM state. I almost believe that it is because when I was so sick in India, when I was praying my heart out to God in a tearful opera of redemption begging him to save my life, I was so desperately afraid to fall asleep because I believed I was on the brink of death; and if I fell into the unconscious world, I might remain there never to wake up again. Since that point in time I didn’t have the capability to sleep again on my own so my body is prone to the wakeful dream state, particularly during moments of inspiration. But I am lucky. Because after only 10 long, debilitating years of my young life being on mind-numbing drugs, I finally found one that is decent enough to provide me a dose of relaxation coupled with the ability to sleep with no side effects. But for the many who suffer from bad meds with side effects or an overdose of toxins in their systems, their lives are damaged because of the meds, not enhanced by them.

After my last visit while stuck in a shamanic journey in the beginning of this 2016 year, the hospital switched my working medicine of Lamictal to two older meds that my body had not previously reacted well to: Depakote and Risperidone. I had no choice in this decision. It had been ten years since they last tried to change meds on me. After the switch, my mind was put on slow-mo, and I couldn’t believe how right I had been about them. They had successfully made me an average thinker with their effective medicine. But this time, unlike when I was 22, I was painfully aware of this reality because now I saw through the bullshit. In trying to slow down my thoughts, the medicine in actuality took away my abilities to use my talents. My mind had been on turbo finishing my book only months prior, and as soon as the meds did their job, I was no longer a writer. My abilities had vanished. And that’s a damn fact. I have the documentation to prove it. I did no writing on my home computer or website between mid-January when the medication switch occurred, until mid-March because I could not think. Meanwhile, prior to this obscene intrusion upon my life in changing my medication, I finished a final rewrite of my book within 5 weeks, which included five brand new chapters. Quite the opposite, during those three months on the bad meds I had barely a couple of journal entries, and it took me all day to compose one email. I must have been a goddam Einstein bipolar genius to have worked as a high school English teacher in Westchester under those meds years ago—or that just goes to show you how retarded our school system is.

Naturally, as soon as I could, I enrolled my prior psychiatrist, (who knew what the fuck he was doing), to get me off the Depakote and Risperidone, and back on Lamictal. The sad thing is, I only knew what to do because I happened to have decades of experience with meds, but it still took three months out of my life to fix the problem that had resulted from the switch. My psychiatrist had asked me to keep a log during the transition.  The following is straight from an email:


New Meds Regimen beginning on PM of March 17, 2016:

Cogentin 1mg, morning only

Risperidone 2mg bedtime

Depakote 750mg bedtime


March 18

Immediately I felt a difference on the morning decrease of Risperidone from 4mg to 2mg. A heavy constriction lifted from my brain, and I could think about small tasks needing to get done that I had been putting off. I also felt I could speak a little more quickly at my usual pace without such concentrated effort. I came out of “hopeless” to “hopeful” overnight. Depression setting in for months quieted down.

March 19

Today was a bit better. I began to remember small ways I communicate with my own conscience. Like in my using phrasing patterns to make sense of my environment inside my own mind. I think the docs think these are “voices” but they are just natural ways we all remind ourselves to do things. Like in looking at a license plate and repeating the numbers and letters in your head to make meaning of a message or memory. As in 234UFB. Today I said to myself: “1, 2, 3, 4 (like a musical prompt) You are free to be…” after I saw it. This is a basic letter/number interpretative message play that people do with their own free minds all day long. On the meds, this is shut down, and one can just look at this blankly with no thought behind interacting with it.

March 20

Today I was actually able to work on the synopsis part of my book proposal draft, which I was not even able to read through on the prior meds dosage. I completed the 3 page document in a fair amount of time and brought it to final copy. This level of cognitive concentration has begun to be restored.

March 21

Three days of change in meds and it is getting easier to make flowing sentences without pressurized speech when talking to people again. I can fully hear my own thoughts again.

March 22

Had trouble concentrating today with finer details in my work. Losing stride. Still finding it extremely hard to break out of sleep mode. Since I’ve come home from the hospital, every morning I’ve had my parents call me all morning until I finally can rise out of bed.

March 23

My brain activity is plateauing again. I can’t hold the information of the work I need to do inside my head at the same time as the menial tasks I need to accomplish during the course of the day and find myself stopping dead in my tracks unable to do either. My productivity mode is freezing up again. I can’t think that quickly, and I lose concentration after working for only a little while on a project. I need more brain space for all the things I need to do right now. My anxiety is acute because of this.

March 24

Today was OK. I was a little less in a fog and was able to clean up one of my work spaces but wasn’t able to concentrate on my work. I’m looking forward to getting my old brain capacity back. I need it to move forward.


Sad. On a good day, I was able to clean up my desk. How can we as a society allow substances to enter our brains if they create cognitive impotence? What is wrong with this picture?

After the adjustment period passed, within days back on Lamictal the fog had lifted, and I was back at my computer writing away. FYI: I don’t know what the industry thinks the drug is supposed to do outside of keeping the bipolars in line. But it’s good for other medicated bipolars out there to know that at least for me, this particular drug doesn’t clash with my manic moments of inspiration. I can think like an artist and be productive as an artist and live the lifestyle on the clock my biorhythms naturally align with; and think like a writer and be productive as a writer and still walk within timeless shamanic journeys with my ancestors and guides. But, I may never have needed any drug from the beginning. If the system was different, and it didn’t choose medication as the first course of treatment for mental breakdown, my mind would never have become dependent on such powerful substances. Nowhere else in the medical establishment is treatment forced upon someone as in the psychiatric institution. This establishment had abused my brain chemically for decades and created for me a sub-standard life because of it. But I had no choice but to comply. When dealing with the psychiatric institution, resistance is futile.

Jun 05

Elimination of the Mentally Ill: the Genetic Undesirable


The Human Genome


How could anyone who has not been on the receiving end of getting tagged and put into a category of the “mentally ill” for their personal thoughts and emotions, know the feeling of being singled out and ostracized as abnormal? Only we can truly understand the warped mindsets originating from long ago, which intended to alienate particular groups of the population, weeding out the undesirables with the covert intention of limiting their rights, or even worse—eradicating them.

I had pondered these issues for my entire adult life because I was marked as having faulty genes at the young age of 22. No one else around me could possibly understand the amount of reading I had done on the subject, the amount of philosophical consideration I had given the origins of these views. I have heard over and over again that, “if you knew your baby had the bipolar gene, wouldn’t you change that?” As if the bipolar gene is a speck of dust that can be flicked away. These genes are inextricably intertwined with dozens of other traits that show up with bipolar DNA—flourishing creativity, moments of enlightenment, vivid dreaming, and innovative genius. It’s called a personality. But to the psychiatric institution, it isn’t “normal.” And it didn’t really matter where you fell on the bipolar spectrum. To most of the general population, bipolar simply meant severely and chronically mentally ill. Unlike in India where class determines these levels of organizing people, in America only today’s conformists are allowed to be free and mobile. All others will be assigned their numbers (as were the Jews of long ago), and placed along the evolutionary pyramid, while those of us with traits they consider the lowliest (i.e. bipolars and schizophrenics), are systematically weaned away from the population.

I saw this up close when I was trying to get pregnant. Here I was six years since my last psychotic incident, healed into a whole woman with a great job as a high school English teacher at Westchester’s Sleepy Hollow High School, episode-free, and blessed with a happy marriage for four years. I was ready to be a mother, and my husband and I believed I could be a good one. Yet my quest in acquiring the all-coveted, joyful baby trophy would not be easy. Most women who were lucky to be fertile never had to contend with a doctor viewing their DNA as so defective that the future of humankind should be spared from it. My doctors in consensus actually discouraged me from having a child and passing along my defective genetics. As if keeping the bipolar population to the bare minimum was the most responsible thing to do because otherwise it might violate their Hippocratic Oath.

So, in the efforts to slow down the rate of propagation amongst the defective mentally ill population, (or what the Nazis called, “the life unworthy of living”), the medical community held to my face a soulless, sterile mirror convincing me that I didn’t deserve to be a mother. I was made to feel that I was being selfish for thinking about passing down such horrendous genes, that if they were to show themselves one day in my offspring, they can only do harm and no good.

Currently, molecular biologists continue to work steadily at mapping the entire human genetic blueprint through the Human Genome Project claiming it’s in our best interest so that future diseases can be eliminated. As I was dealing with my basic human right of procreation, I was continually reminded in covert language that for the health benefits of future generations, bipolar disorder was among the genetic aggregates that wasn’t likely to make the cut-off list into the more evolved future gene pool of humankind.

The main goal of the project is to gain a genetic profile of the “superior” human being so as to direct the best course of gene selection for the future development of a more advanced species. The entire project, which burns several billions of taxpayer dollars every year, is laden with ethical and moral issues, and is a direct outgrowth of early Nazi research in genetics. Not even the scientists working on the project have full knowledge of the research they are working on. Gene ownership is currently being discussed in corporate and governmental alliances. And there are theses being published by esteemed men in the field who rather flippantly predict the wars of our future between the genetically “enhanced” and everyone else, or the “naturals.”

Research from the project shows that the bipolar “illness” is a “complex genetic disorder,” meaning the very gene that is responsible for bipolarity is fused together with a DNA composite that contains a great many first-rate genes as well. In the past, a conglomeration of traits that could not be broken apart from one another might have been identified as a personality. Now, if one genetic trait within a combination has only the potential to present problems in the future for its owner, the entire cluster is deemed abnormal. To me, this was devastating to learn, because so many levels of capacity we have as people show up in the non-material aspect of life—levels of thought, imagination, creativity. The Human Genome Project analyzes the material aspects of ourselves implying that we are nothing more than genetic material on a strand of DNA, and our descendants—or our children—are a continuation of that genetic material, either fit or unfit for the future evolution of our species.

Many kids who are tagged “mentally ill” have incredibly imaginative stuff tucked away inside their brains in unusual and ingenious ways, but they lose confidence along the way. And the world tries to convince them they have brain dysfunction. But our DNA, flawed chromosomes and all, holds the design of our complex and unique expression of our individualism. In Revolution OS, a documentary that tells the inside story of a group of hackers who created the Open Source Movement and rebelled against the proprietary software model, the hackers seemed to be mentally in another world. In all likelihood the computer geeks in this documentary were misfits growing up, possibly secluded in their rooms and socially unapproachable. They may not have appeared like everyone else, but they had the genetic makeup of budding geniuses. Before this obsession with genetic defective traits, this ingenious group would have been left to their own devices to blossom and grow into their more evolved selves. Today, under the new societal view of correcting genetic deviants, doctors might prescribe these oddballs medication because they don’t socially fit in, and as a result, weaken their focus on logic and their singular vision for the abstract. And what a loss our society would have suffered. Are our differences in our genetic composition defects, or indeed gifts?



The Galtonian Agenda and Eugenics


That some genetic personality compositions are better, or “more normal,” than others is a poor first starting premise, and only rotten fruit can grow from the roots of its tree. These ideas of superiority from a select few prevailed throughout our entire history, permeating our society and the world at large like a cockroach infestation. And it’s never stopped.

Charles Darwin’s ideas about evolution have a lot to do with how people are now viewing each other’s mental and emotional capacities. Biological psychology uses the same materialist approach as that of natural history research, as they view so much about mental or emotional affairs as being the result of a genetic influence. And they believe through random evolution, some genetic traits are more superior or more evolved than others. Darwin had a great influence on his friend, Sigmund Freud, during his time, and in his On the Origin of Species he wrote:


In the distant future I see open fields for far more important

researches. Psychology will be based on a new foundation,

that of the necessary acquirement of each mental power and

capacity by gradation. Light will be thrown on the origin

of man and his history.

Subsequent schools of thought broke loose from Darwin’s perspective on genetic traits in gradation. Inspired by his theories, Charles Darwin’s cousin, Frances Galton, birthed Social Darwinism—which extended these concepts to include people’s personalities and characteristics ranging from physical to mental.

The philosophy behind Social Darwinism influenced the psychiatric bible, or the Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (or DSM), which categorizes every idiosyncratic detail of human expression into groups and sub-groups of the defective genetic gene pool. Without anybody ever realizing it, Social Darwinism had begun over a century ago to direct the organization of our society, particularly manifested in the field of psychiatry.

Galton began with the assumption (popular in the scientific racism school of thought at the time) that some people were genetically better than others. A grotesque progression of Social Darwinism produced the Eugenics Movement, which advocates practices to improve the genetic composition of a human population, and which is still given consideration today in scientific circles. Eugenics fueled philosophical ideologies for over a century and influenced much of the way psychiatry tends to evaluate the mentally ill, as they believe that many mental problems are hereditary. And they have plenty of unsubstantiated “scientific” evidence to prove it.

The pseudoscience of Eugenics proposed that human beings, in order for the fittest to survive, needed to weed out the less desirables so as to prevent competition for resources between the unfit and the fit. Eugenicists felt it was their responsibility to help natural evolution along. Many were concerned that certain institutions, like insane asylums, were allowing inferior humans to survive and reproduce at levels faster than the more “superior” humans. Eugenics was practiced in the United States for many years prior to its involvement in World War II. And between the years 1907-1963, the United States upheld compulsory sterilization laws, which affected over 64,000 individuals, (almost all of whom were patients of state mental institutions), who were the least desirable of society.

The Galtonian agenda had a direct link to the horrors of Nazi Germany, and the U.S. eugenics programs provided much of the inspiration for the Nazis’ racial hygiene programs. It supported the Nazi obsession with cleansing their gene pool from “unhygienic” racial populations. Believing their Aryan race to be the superior master race, Nazis were out to destroy non-Aryans, cleansing the world of inferior breeds to attain heavenly perfection on Earth. This insane Aryanist ideology was the radical but logical extension of both scientific racism and Social Darwinism. The Nazis didn’t see people when they saw everyone else in relationship to themselves as the master race. They saw living, dirty creatures that they had the right to genetically play with and eliminate. As Jews were considered pests and lice, mental patients were seen as germs. Elimination of the imbecile population would ensure the master race’s chance to proliferate quicker and more efficiently. Starting with the mentally ill, the plan to eradicate unwanted genes had begun. As in the US, the mentally ill were the first to be sterilized in Nazi Germany, and further, they were later the first to be exterminated during the trial experiment of the Nazi Tiergarten 4 program. They tested eliminating the worst undesirables first and murdered 70,000 mental patients quietly and discreetly before they unleashed their horrific practices upon the Jewish population.



Man-made Evolution


Much of psychiatry and biological psychology is based on the idea of genetic mistakes in our personal traits. The overly abundant and growing amount of labels of defective mental illnesses in the DSM is a direct outgrowth of the Nazi belief in identifying the less fit, and now, with the current interest in projects regarding the human genome, we are again trying to get rid of inferior genes from the future. I suppose in a more “humane” way.

In a 2006 newspaper article evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins stated that the Eugenics movement got a bad rap from the Nazi misuse of it, and enough time has elapsed for reconsideration of such an idea.  In his view, it’s not physically different from breeding domestic animals for traits like herding skill or speed. He said he didn’t see the ethical differences between breeding for ability versus training athletes or forcing children to take music lessons. This Jimmy the Greek dickhead wannabe cannot draw the distinction between creating a strong dog breed, and selecting only certain characteristics to direct the course of human evolution. The fact that this is even being discussed in elitist scientific circles, who are making decisions regarding our children’s future, is frightening.

These obsessions with steering the course of evolution by man-made means was a driving motivator in Nazi ideology. The party took their mission very seriously. In seeing themselves as superior, they wanted to help nature along so that it would not default to selective factors randomly. They believed that certain traits they deemed as stronger and fitter for the advanced human being—such as toughness, bravery, and social utility—could only be accomplished through a human institution. They could not accept the idea that natural selection might steer humanity towards competition for resources between the superior white races and colored populations, the Jewish lineage, or the mentally ill.

Nazi practices showed the extreme advancement of a wrong theory gone too far. And because we are depending on man to determine which genetic types are superior, particularly with the mentally ill, there can be no prediction as to where we go with this. How far is too far when there are 374 labeled personality types to choose to eradicate in the current DSM? With no one to voice against this reasoning, I promise you that in time the bipolar artists will soon be cleansed from existence. It takes but a generation or two. But instead of even thinking about getting rid of a population, we should be working feverishly to right the wrongs of this planet with good hearts to bring about true change for the better.

Scientific members of the establishment are attempting to eliminate these defective genes associated with the so-called “mentally ill” population so they cannot hurt us in our future evolution. They are choosing “good” genetics instead, based on their own genotypes, to live onward for the benefit of the human race. In their view, the problems of the world can be rectified once the less evolved genotypes are eliminated from the future gene pool. They are convinced that it’s in mankind’s best interest for proper evolutionary development to be rid of us imbeciles. Well, they are insane. Because if they keep nullifying all these personality types, they are destroying our genetic variation as a species, which allows for a population to naturally evolve. If we don’t have enough variation in the gene pool, we cannot adapt in response to changing environmental variables.  If one embraces Eugenics as a sensible move for our evolution as a human race, they are closing the door on natural selection and embracing man-made selection instead, which is based on a number of scientific predictions determined by man’s limited understanding of what our evolution newly calls for; and, as a result, we may face extinction.




The Undesirables


Long ago, the dead white men in charge, who began coming up with all these fancy labels, set limitations for the “unevolved” groups of people whom they saw as the most undesirable of society. They were able to hold these types back and keep them down by attaching a mental illness marker to it.  A perfect example of this is the former mental illness of drapetomania, which is a “disease” they concluded, that causes Negro slaves to run away. Dr. Cartwright, a highly respected and widely published doctor from the University of Louisiana, wrote in 1851 the article, “Diseases and Peculiarities of the Negro Race:”


(It) “is as much a disease of the mind as any

other species of mental alienation, and much

more curable, as a general rule. With the

advantages of proper medical advice, strictly

followed, this troublesome practice that many

Negroes have of running away, can be almost

entirely prevented.


The racist medical experts of that time period believed that if a slave was kept in the God-intended position of submission, and if his master was kind without condescension and provided for all his physical wants, the Negro would, under normal frame of mind, be spellbound and could not run away. This mental illness marker is clearly preposterous today, but at the time, it was taken seriously in prominent schools of study. In the late 1800s, normal for the black man meant being submissive.

In the early 1800s, (during which some very important mental illnesses were being “discovered”), Dr. Benjamin Rush (one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence who was considered the “Father of American Psychiatry”), identified another affliction from which many Black Americans were suffering. It was called Negritude, which he determined was a mild form of leprosy, and the only cure for this disorder was to become white. This lent itself later to racial segregation. Keep the blacks and whites separate so that the whites don’t catch that nasty illness of Negritude.

Another example of this social oppression is the categorization of homosexuality as one of the “sexual deviations” in the DSM-II published in 1968. In time, homosexuals demanded social acceptance, and in 1973, the American Psychiatric Association removed homosexuality from its official diagnostic list.

Today, we continue to let the system tag people by numbers just as they did in Nazi Germany—in this case the pharma code from the DSM—thereby restricting their rights when it so chooses. This highly-regarded cataloguing system of personalities and flaws has more to do with botany classification than assessing the many colors of the human spirit. And by eliminating these personality traits that are so-called “illnesses,” they are eliminating bloodlines.

On the other side of those hospital doors rests a vacuous white chasm where all the “undesirables” of today’s population end up, haunted by the ghostly thought-forms of yesterday. “She is a Jew. Eradicate her,” the ghosts say. When I was on the inside, I was certain I wasn’t crazy. Neither was any other undesirable in there. And who makes up these undesirables they wish to eliminate from the future? They are the prophets, the artists, the intuitives and the warriors of this world now part of the latest classification system of living things and are made to keep their traps shut. But my crazy brethren on the inside of those madhouses were like me. They were the ones who fell prey to the emotional cruelty on the outside, who found it difficult to succumb to our sick environment, and who failed to effectively block out the mayhem by acquiescing to the pressures of society. We indeed were different. Unlike much of the well-oiled parts of the machine, we who possessed this super-sensitivity were easily crushed under the metal and cogs. We were not the toughest, bravest, or socially useful to the current day status quo of society. But we are not the ones who need to be eliminated from the gene pool. Our dispositions and genetic make-ups are the very kinds that can influence a better world for our future.



May 20

Psychiatric Labeling: A Modern Day Crime


We Are Not Behavior Alone

In 1994, I was labeled with bipolar disorder. I always hated to divulge this juicy nugget of info to doctors or budding friends, and I never revealed it to employers. By sharing this label I was submitting to society’s stigma and thwarted conclusion of what everyone felt this “illness” actually was—an abnormal state, a deformity within a flawed set of genes. After years of therapy and self-loathing, and then waking up to an acceptance of myself, I knew this was ridiculous. But I was ahead of my time. The medical world, along with the rest of the masses whom the establishment had successfully brainwashed over the years, thought otherwise

After I had just returned from India where I suffered from a life-threatening illness, I was permanently stamped with the most heinous label of mental illness stereotypes because I almost died and got upset. For ongoing years, I wasn’t sure if I was cracked or they were. There was no sure way to tell. I was sure I wasn’t nuts. But there are very few ways to prove that one is not crazy. Especially when the psychiatric institution bases their entire model of determining one’s craziness through observations of behavior alone.

I began to see early on that the mental health industry bases much of their approach to identifying mental illnesses on the outdated scientific philosophy of Radical Behaviorism by B.F. Skinner from long ago. Skinner rejected theorizing about private events of the mind and emotions, disregarding the inner experience, ignoring all that wasn’t observable by method, and excluding a great deal of what makes us human beings. Experiences of mental illness begin in the privacy of our minds and the emotions associated with them are keys to unlock the roots of the mental illness. Mental illness is most linked to the context from which it derives. In my experience, the scientific “theory” the hospital brought forth to explain my mental breakdown was not based on the context of my story, but rather on all these well-attained observations about how I behaved. But I am made up of more than behaviors alone. I am not a lab rat in a cage to be looked at.

First-hand stories that provided real-life context as to why people exhibit strange behavior are disregarded when a diagnosis is being made. In the spirit of non-bias and objectivity, doctors instead base their labels for life on the abstract and inventive psychiatric story of symptomatic markers. I didn’t know then that as early as 1980, the American Psychiatric Association eliminated “context” as a necessary factor in determining psychiatric disorders. A doctor has to simply refer to his bible, the Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (or DSM) and decide which diagnosis fits the patient best based on the number of behavioral criteria met. The formation of the DSM was influenced by Emil Kraepelin’s work (1856-1926), which leaned toward a more generalized approach to diagnosing symptoms in psychosis. Rather than looking at the contents of individual experiences, Kraepelin was interested in finding patterns in psychotic behavior that could be used for a therapy plan. In my psychosis, or rather my shamanic episode, no one was hurt or wronged. Yet, in their DSM, I was ill because I had met a certain number of characteristics and behaviors that they deemed abnormal in human beings. And that was that. No negotiations on this one.




Now that I was labeled bipolar, I knew it was going to be goddamn impossible to convince anyone I was normal. Renowned psychiatrist and academic, Thomas Szasz—whose 1960 controversial, groundbreaking article “The Myth of Mental Illness” critiqued the very heart of psychiatry in its moral and scientific foundations—claims that what we call mental illnesses are really “problems in human living,” which is largely the result of making poor choices motivated by unsuitable values, or responding negatively to the unexpected disappointments that are naturally a part of life. Szasz poses the question, “Who defines the norms and hence the deviation?” A general compass in society for “normal” behaviors is dangerous, for the definition of normal is precarious and subject to change. Quite often biases are usually in accord only with the values and norms of society at that fixed point in time before more progressive ideas are introduced. The most obvious example of this is the categorization of homosexuality as one of the “sexual deviations” in the DSM-II published in 1968. In time, homosexuals demanded social acceptance, and in 1973, the American Psychiatric Association removed homosexuality from its official diagnostic list.

I knew the institution would never see me behind that label. They only saw the pharma code and description—296.41 Bipolar I Disorder, Most Recent Episode Manic. Throughout the 22 years I was under the scope of the psychiatric institution, they never saw my potential, they ignored it. Instead, they effectively used their jargon to remind me of my limits. If felt like a sort of mind control, because although I had psychotic experiences, I was not crazy. I was just a regular person who was different from other people. But the psychiatric institution made it almost impossible for me to realize that.

Like the natural history museum scientists pinning beetles to cardboard with fancy genus and species names, the psychiatric institution is categorizing people with fancy labels, and then keeping them indefinitely sitting labeled for no good use. While diagnosing they say: ‘What is that behavior? I don’t know what that is. Let’s call it something and give it a label.’ Like we’re beetles. The prophets, the artists, and the warriors of this world are now part of the latest Classification of the Living Things and are made to keep their traps shut.

In our recent past, mental illness labels were not nearly as popular as today. In the first edition of the DSM in 1952, only 60 were listed. By the early 90s, the DSM IV carried approximately 280 disorders, which is excessive enough. But with the recent 2013 release of the latest DSM V, psychiatrists have managed to fabricate a whole boatload more in their collective psychiatric imagination. A growing number of medical professionals are critical of the latest DSM-V, as it now contains up to 374 mental illness labels. Psychiatrist and author, Allen Frances, who was chairman of the DSM-IV Task Force, stated, “This is not just an academic debate. It’s not just inside psychiatry. It has a huge impact on how lives are lived, how mental health dollars are spent and on the public health of the country.” Says Frances, “The reason there is so much controversy about DSM-V is that psychiatric diagnosis has become, if anything, too important …”.

Almost every facet of human behavior can now be viewed as a symptom of mental illness—from lethargy to shyness, from fastidiousness to inattentiveness, or from fatness to dishonesty. And they are conjured up by a panel of people (not all of whom are “doctors”) behind closed doors. Furthermore, among this last DSM-V Taskforce, 69% reported having ties to the pharmaceutical industry. It seems as though Big Pharma is in the business of making us all crazy. I can almost guarantee that everyone I know can be labeled with at least one mental disorder from the DSM bible.

Big Pharma is the headmaster of lies in this complex scheme of psychiatric labeling because in the 1980s, they took the field over. They needed to label everyone so that they could give them the right meds and code the proper insurance for the mental patients. But they couldn’t say it “like it is.” It would sound too discriminatory against what they perceived to be the lower life-forms. So, they made up different names for everyone with no truly descriptive words allowed except those that described outer behaviors.

Throughout my 22 years of being a psychiatrically labeled mental case, I needed to always inform the hospital of my plans because ultimately, the doctors were in charge of my life. I had lost my freedom to do as I wished long ago. In 1998, I told my doctor I wanted to relocate to Colorado to look into facilities that offered healing through a more natural, holistic means unassisted by pharmaceuticals. She did not take my new reasoning seriously. She turned to my mother who had accompanied me that day, and as if I weren’t there said, “Well, you do have some things to fear. She isn’t dealing with reality and may eventually lose it. She might act out in a brazen manner, begin to get rashly angry, and even damage the house with lighting fires and such.”

Offering my paranoid mom the absolute worst and unlikely of scenarios was not only ridiculous, but extraordinarily manipulative and unprofessional. Thanks to this so-called wisdom from my doctor, on each day of my countdown to my departure to Colorado my poor mother anxiously and irrationally begged me in panic not to light any incense or candles in my room for sheer terror of the house burning to the ground. This doctor believed she was able to surmise these possible future states of “acting out” because the label told her such. She never saw me as a person who was unique outside of the label and would never have the urge even in shamanic states to light fires.


duct tape

The Crime of Unlawful Detainment

 In 2012, I was committed to a mental institution again because I couldn’t sleep through Hurricane Sandy, and I was in and out of a shamanic state. I knew I had fallen to my inspiration, but that was no sin. For any New Yorker alive not being able to sleep was completely reasonable during Hurricane Sandy’s roar—I was no social deviant this time around. Sadly, I was alone on this journey because the hospital couldn’t get in touch with my private psychiatrist for the last six years (who poetically, was traveling in his homeland of India of all places), so they couldn’t simply get a script from him for sleeping medication; and further, he couldn’t act as my personal advocate. So at this point they saw a visit to the mental hospital as my only good option for “recovery” because I was labeled as having bipolar disorder, and I was a top priority mental case. And, of course, I complied. I had no choice because I knew this drama was in full bloom because of my label.

Within one day of them dispensing to me sleeping pills, I was fine to return back to my life at home. But my label affected my world in a huge way as I knew it would someday. I began to notice that suicidal inpatients that came in after me were free to leave the hospital before me. Gentle, coherent, even-tempered and compliant in all aspects of the program was I. My husband, my son, and my parents visited every day, which demonstrated that I had a strong support system to which I could return. So I appealed to the resident psychiatrist who had taken my case, “When am I going to be released to go home?”

He answered with the smuggest, most insincere, and authoritarian tone after staring at me with a pregnant pause. “Well, we’re still watching you to make sure you’re OK to go home. You just try to get better, and I’ll let you know when we decide what’s best for your recovery plan, shall we?”

Wow. She’s bipolar, watch her. Psychiatry has really advanced in the last twenty years since I first heard such a thing.

He thought it was appropriate to speak to me like I was a three year old asking for candy before dinner. I finally saw it. I looked straight into the pupils of his eyes, and I knew it. He was judging me wrongly. It was my label he saw, not me. He thought because of the description of possible behaviors that might be exhibited in those with the DSM label of bipolar disorder, that psychotic images must be dancing inside my head. Because that’s what the label told him.

In The Crucible, when the religious fanatics of Salem pressed John Proctor to sign his name to confess the crime of witchcraft he had not committed, he cried out in despair:

Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another

 in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because

I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How

may I live without my name? I have given you my soul;

leave me my name!

Much like these mad brethren of yesterday, this modern day assemblage of psychiatric fanatics had permanently sullied my name by attaching it to a label years ago. I would have been better off having committed a high felony. At least before you incriminate yourself you are reminded of your Miranda rights, assigned a personal legal counselor, and presumed innocent until proven guilty.

During this particular stay I became dreadfully aware that these labels have silenced our voices forever in our own country. We weren’t free because there was no other way for us to be seen or heard except through our labels. For so many years leading up to this stay, I knew I had to prove that a label could affect me for the rest of my life. And it wasn’t only in the here and now that my freedom was being compromised. If I should not have the courage to fight it, it would one day again present a problem for me. In this lifetime, if I was to remain in America, I could never truly be free. My entire identity had been stolen from me. They never saw me for who I was—a smart, talented and gifted individual, but as an abnormal bipolar mental case with a history of psychosis.

I began to realize with each passing day that what was taking place was a negation of my freedom, as if I was the perfect example of a person who should be locked up. If such actions were taken place under the laws of criminal proceedings—if someone, for instance, was not released promptly after making bail—no one would stand for it. But such laws did not protect the so-called “mentally ill.” Whether or not we showed ourselves to be dangerous, our labels suggested the possibility of us acting out, and that was enough for them.

My good insurance was clearly part of the equation for keeping me locked up. But it was more than that. They could only get away with it because of the severity of the bipolar label they tagged me with decades ago—one of the most severe mental illnesses that is classified in the DSM—that was as linked up to every aspect of my life as my social security number.

No matter what I said, the institution saw me as an illness. I had a number attached to my name. Bipolar I Disorder, Most Recent Episode Manic, DSM pharma code: 296.41. I became a numbered person to watch. I became a Jew.



The Limitations of a Label

 During this 2012 visit many complex characters populated the home, and I took to Alicia right away. She was a brilliant young girl of about 20 years, whose light shone so bright when she walked into a room it could wake up the most comatose of inpatients. She was classified as having Borderline Personality Disorder (DSM pharma code: 301.83). These types were pinned with exhibiting intense, unstable moods, under-regulated emotions, and basic rebellious behaviors like impulsivity and promiscuity. It seemed to me that many people in this group of the mentally ill at earlier periods of history might have made terrific, political and social protestors who had interest in trying to make real change in disrupting the low status quo of society. But as the diagnosis entered the DSM in 1980, the powers-that-be had surely squelched those tendencies by determining them as pathological. Somehow people have learned to believe that there is scientific progress in classifying people. And they are just simply wrong.

Alicia revealed to me that she felt relieved they had finally figured out what was wrong with her having identified it with a label. I loved the girl’s vibrancy and sharp wit and worried one day those traits might be nullified, for she had officially bought a ticket on the psychiatric railroad to lead her quest in becoming a normal human being. I grabbed her hand and said to her slowly straight into her eyes, “You are not a label. It might serve you now to help you get on your feet. But you are more than a label. You are Alicia. No matter what they tell you in the future, never forget that.”

She sighed and held her breath looking as though she might tear up. “Thanks. I’ll remember that.” She was released to go home with her label later that afternoon.

Beyond just the few that find themselves in a mental hospital, people should care about psychiatric labeling because it affects everyone. Especially our children. They have labels and codes for each and every one of us. Don’t believe me? Well, then open the damn DSM book, and read it. Find out what colorful label you are. These eloquent labels they have so creatively compiled apply the duct tape neatly across our traps for anyone who should challenge the establishment’s way of thinking. The religion of psychology does not even need to impose watchdogs. We are doing it to each other, observing each other’s every move, ready to report something strange, something suspicious in one another’s behaviors. From teachers to parents to friends to neighbors, we are all on guard labeling everyone into categories without ever being asked to do so. Being comfortable with one’s own idiosyncratic traits is becoming a thing of the past, and over-analysis runs rampant like the Black Plague.

The labeling process has sped up within the last few decades, and one must consider what things looked like in our history with no labels. When at one time we were making strides in the civil rights movement, today there is a reason the dissent has quieted down. Now social rebellion can be judged as pathological and diagnosed as Oppositional Defiant Disorder (DSM pharma code: 313.81).

When I became a teacher it broke my heart to see how a decade later after I was first slapped with a psychiatric label, the process of labeling kids in schools was now relentless. I worked in the Bronx and saw how the ethnics were the ones who suffered most because their behaviors and cultural ways did not measure up to what the white man, who came up with all these labels, deemed as normal. In schools at every level our children are being systematically labeled and organized so that they can successfully conform to the dumb-ass white-man system. If you don’t fit, you get a label, which one day might limit your freedoms as an American citizen as it did to me. That’s what we’re signing our kids up for.

Our kids are under dangerous influences artfully crafted from long ago, and we are allowing them to do it. Education initiatives since the 1950s by the World Health Organization were firmly put in place to separate children as early as possible from their family traditions and systematically organize them into psychological groupings based on behaviors and skills for jobs. The goal was to create a world citizen, but instead, the plan pulled kids away from their own people—their language, their spiritual beliefs, their family customs—replacing these foundations with a new coded scheme of citizen organization. And the mental illness industry is blooming into a full-blown Baron Munchausen fiesta from it.

Moms, take it from me. Do NOT get your kids labeled in schools. It never goes away. It is a permanent mark forever. It does not wash away with tears or with anger. It means you can’t lose it. Ever. Like how you can beat cancer? Nope. In their clinical world of lies you will never beat a mental illness. It is held to your identity until the day you die. It becomes part of you. It is identified in your DNA. It determines your future—your future relationships, your future self-esteem, your future opportunities, your future rights. No one hears your voice as a citizen behind a label. The labeled are deemed unfit and unable to make decisions with good judgment. It’s practically impossible for anyone to feel important under that label. Giving a personality a permanent psychiatric label is a sure way to control the behavior of the population. Which forces people to shut their mouths. “This is your kind,” they say. A barrel of the mentally ill. The permanently ill. It’s happening for real. Quietly and efficiently. They have our children, and the time is ticking.

The fact is this stupid label had colored my life for years, and the only way I was able to see my world was by looking through its lens—that I was ill, that safety came first, and that I needed caretaking in my life in order for me to stand on my own two feet. It took me most of my life to realize that nothing can be further from the truth. In this battle, I am not alone. I am many other people with assigned labels. I am misunderstood children in the education system. I am people of color who are misjudged by ethnic differences from the established norm. I am people of dissent and rebellion who find the pathetically low status quo unacceptable. I am all the emotional creatives who are losing their breath and their thrust in the race to stay alive, to thrive in wellness through their creativity, which to them is the stuff that makes an authentic life.

Over the last two decades I lost everything to that label. My dignity, my identity, my pride, and even my marriage. Most of all, I lost my certainty that my son would be safe and free under the American legal system. But I had a name before a label. I’m Jen Gaita.



May 01

The Shamanistic Nature of Psychiatric Patients: Let Them Hone Their Gifts


The Psychiatric View of the Shaman

It’s true. Many “mentally ill” people are budding shamans. Especially the bipolars. I can say this openly because for over twenty years, I’ve lived with a psychiatric label attached to my name when all I’m really trying to do is enter shamanic states safely in order to tell my stories and connect with my muses.

When I traveled to India in 1994, I suffered from an acute form of dysentery alone on the streets of New Delhi and a compassionate taxi-driver and Sudra class man, Mahander, came to my rescue and got me to my emergency plane departure on time.  Upon the return home, however, after noticing for the first time the disparity between the greed and overindulgence of New York’s city streets juxtaposed with what I just witnessed in the slums of New Delhi, an altered perception tail-spinned my mind into a spiraling tornado; and after an emotional outburst that I could no longer control after the trauma, I was thrown into a mental institution and labeled with bipolar disorder for the rest of my life.

I would not have returned home from India without the help of a family of angels who were directing my steps and providing me symbolic information in a wakeful dream state. Because the spiritual world communicates with us with the language we employ them, my DNA code seemed linked to these symbols as though only I could interpret them in a unique way. And I did arrive home after all, and I believe it was only because I listened to a guidance larger than myself, which provided me with an awareness I had never known before; and which was now being challenged in the psychiatric institution.

The psychiatric institution regards such stories as illusionary or delusional. And as anyone who walks through those mental institution doors knows, the psychiatric philosophy undermines anything that cannot be proven through empirical naturalism. Rather than considering alternative possibilities that create these states, it teaches us that there is something fundamentally wrong with all those afflicted, something innate that causes our states. My mental and physical strain in India was clearly the impetus for my mind shift. It was an enormous stressor, something traumatic and life-threatening. But the psychiatric doctors avoided the subject of India like a case of the flu, as if it wasn’t part of the equation at all. And this is because they lack understanding of alternate points of view on mental illness.

In but a couple months, the medical team handling my case informed me that they finally figured out “what was wrong with me.” This mental illness of bipolar disorder, they told me, would be with me for the rest of my life since it was a genetic, pathological illness with no cure. In the beginning of living with my label of bipolar disorder, as they had conveniently named my personality, they may have been convinced I was crazy in these states of mind, but I saw them as prisoners chained to the wall in Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. Shackled to their version of reality their entire lives, only seeing mere shadows of actual forms, how could they know the true light of the fire that was now emblazoned in my memory of India? I had broken free from the cave and came to know that the shadows did not reflect the real truth in the least bit.  With my journey to and back from India, I came to perceive a multidimensional reality, much like what indigenous shamans perceive through the depth and power of symbols—not merely the shadowy forms of the one tiny “objective” worldview that was taken as fact at home. I realized how indoctrinated they were, locked into the matrix of a one-way interpretation of humanity’s place and purpose. Up until that moment, I had been one of them. But my new eyes were no longer accustomed to the darkness, and quickly I realized that I would no longer be a good player at their game.

I was on meds for years, and longed to be off them as they had made a mockery of my interaction with others due to many visible and debilitating side effects, which not only made me feel like an imbecile but look like too. But the truth is, Big Pharma has us by our throats and their arresting mind control of the day convinces everyone they need a long list of psychiatric medications when they often do not. At least not forever, which is what they want. Another addicted life-long customer.

I ran off to Colorado when I finally had enough, and ended up having another insane experience in getting lost in the Rockies off the trail. And in this further life-threatening situation, I again began to enter the shamanic dream state, which I had not experienced since India. In but a few months after returning to New York, I began to have vivid dreams as wisdom from faraway souls revealed secrets to me. In addition, during my wakeful hours I began to journey like a shaman as I became an open channel to receive input from distant bloodlines. Then I began to realize, under the massive stress I found myself in, a shamanic initiation had indeed taken place in those Colorado Mountains.



The Wakeful Dream State

In Native American circles, shamans were believed to connect to their spirit guides through intense ritual and brave willingness to enter another level of consciousness. Shamanism is not a religion but a set of techniques that help one navigate in a wakeful dream, (which is a trancelike state similar to an altered state of consciousness induced by psychedelics), in order to collect information and bring it back to the tribe. In their communities, they knew if a state of “mental illness” occurred, the shaman needed to commune with the other side and enter another dimension where healing could be extracted for the good of the afflicted. In the same vein, after Colorado, through ritual and meditation, in my active imagination I began to commune with humble ancestors of long ago, with indigenous populations, with our native brethren that walked this American soil before imperialistic greed raped their families and ravaged their land. Through visual images and symbolism they tried to show me their truth, stories, and profound, lingering whispers of yesterday.

Shamans can journey into the past; they experience compressed time, or a time outside of time. Australian Aborigines practice the art of experiencing dreamtime and regular time simultaneously and can enter this at will. Being in two realities at once allows a person awareness of the merging with dream time, the origin of all things, a reality where shamans believe to hold the only truth that can be trusted. Tribal shamanic cultures see the “mentally ill” as having access to two worlds—the ethereal and the physical. Shamans have the ability to serve as the bridge between realms, merging with the world of the spirit and gathering information from a spiritual source that can help those who suffer emotional or mental strain. However, those in training are guided by experienced shamans and are taught how to navigate their way on the other side and safely return back so that madness does not manifest in their psyches. Think Carlos Castaneda’s Lessons of Don Juan.

Many “mentally ill” patients essentially enter the wakeful dream state, when the dream world crosses over into reality. These ethereal zones hold dream imagery with allegorical significance. One journeys in that space by way of making meaning of the symbolism, and then builds upon those meanings to gain clarity. This can only be achieved in the mental realm but is guided by clues found in the physical realm. And in the end, only the physical world can most people see.



Psychosis and the Shaman’s Journey


On the inside of the institution, psychosis is always the worst possible pathological symptom, whether or not it’s violent, whether it’s enlightening or debilitating. A disconnect with the “way things are” does not open up a conversation, but instead slams the door in the faces of those who depend on their imaginations to help them interpret their reality, as we artists do, in order to survive. Consumers of the mental health industry often can’t make sense of their “psychotic” experiences, and then the psychiatric institution ushers themselves in as their healers and caretakers forevermore. In our lovely group therapy, instead of sharing the meanings behind the thematic elements that popped up in our psychoses, we instead were encouraged to mind probe and deconstruct each other’s thought processes. But all this over-analysis of such a private space as the mind, especially when one is mentally vulnerable, can be highly invasive.

Patients in mental hospitals appear to be walking around in faraway, dreamlike states because they are caught in timelessness. But going deeper into timelessness can only strengthen your understanding of these larger concepts, not weaken it. And yet, the psychiatric institution convinces our future artists, intuitives, healers, and dreamers that they are mentally ill, and thus, they shut themselves down and never hone their innate gifts.

Today’s Western psychiatric medicine is not in the practice of guiding the initiated home so many creative people and healers are willing to enter this state of “madness” alone, regardless of how overwhelming or precarious. And I knew too well that the dreamy context of these “psychotic” states would never be explored or taken seriously because to this institution, they don’t believe the statement of the great Romantic poet, William Blake, when he asserted that, “Mental things are alone real.”

For many years, while entering these states and getting myself inside the institution a few times, I was still just a novice shaman, and when I tried my best to put words to my mental imagery that was bursting to be told to my family and friends, I sounded like a little girl describing pictures in a toddler’s primary phonics book. I often lost any real communication abilities when it came to this inspired stuff, and I looked like a lunatic each of the few times it happened. It’s no wonder why a shamanic journeyer like me ends up in the loony bin time and time again.



Episodic Symbolism for the Bipolar Shaman

For many creative bipolars on the inside, entering these alternate layers of reality allows them to process their environment and try to interpret it sensibly, something I personally found extremely difficult to do after I returned home from India. My so-called real world never made sense again. In fact, this other reality I entered but only a few times in my life, held realer and truer memories for me. Everything else in my past falls away as illusion. The traditional psychological field refuses to even acknowledge the existence of such altered states of mind much less offer the appropriate course of action on how to deal with such psychic phenomenon.

Without any assistance over the years in learning how to deal with breaking through to another layer of reality in these bouts with “madness,” or the wakeful dream state, I was not able to harness the knowledge of such a gift nor hone any of its healing techniques. For creatives, it’s in this kind of dreamy world where inspiration sits. Its terrain is not one of logic or measurement, but rather symbolism, containing images that hold special meaning like that of a dream. Because all we are inside our minds are the symbols that remain as part of our consciousness from memories past.

And here is where one can slip and lose sight of the whole picture. Many of us who unexpectedly find ourselves in that ethereal zone, collecting our bits and pieces of symbolism in order to tell our stories, get lost along the way home to the reality we all agree upon as “objective reality.”

To others—our families and friends who are watching these “episodes”—these symbolic impressions may seem weird or disconnected, but for the shaman, the reading of these symbols is vital to discovering one’s unique understanding of how the Universe is connecting to him personally. It’s in that timeless dimension where the collective unconscious of symbolism sits, where the wakeful dream state offers us visions of past and present. In each one of my visions when I entered these states, the symbolic messages were highly personal and always meaningful, as they contained premonitions of psychic memories of the peoples of yesterday who walked the same path in finding their symbolic story of the environment in which they lived.

Dr. Joseph K. Dixon describes symbolic interpretation in his book in 1913, The Vanishing Race,

These primitive men hold time and money and

ambition as nothing. But a dream, or a cloud in the

sky, or a bird flying across the trail from the wrong

direction, or a change of the wind will challenge their

deepest thoughts. To the Indian mind all signs are



Viewing symbolic dream imagery as signs of neurosis or pathology, as Freud once had, is missing the entire meaning of the messages. Alternatively, Jung believed that dream imagery contained symbols deriving from our shared collective unconscious, from which we all can access the same meanings. It was obvious to me that the themes that consistently appeared in my psychotic states were not telling the story about my hang-ups; but rather, the dreamlike symbolism woven through my wakeful shamanic journeys was like a magical realism, which led me through the underworld and helped me understand my reality.

Many people when walking into an institution tell stories of the FBI chasing them, or they believe they are Moses, or that they are hearing whispers from the other side. But when one really gets to know these people, they are bursting with creativity and the Universe is communicating with them through symbolic dream imagery so that they can better understand themselves and their purpose.



Journeying with Creative Muses


It was in 2006, during my third hospital visit when I was shamanic journeying for ten days and nights straight while I was pregnant with my son. They couldn’t give me sleeping meds to stop my mania because it might’ve hurt the baby. On that occasion I knew full well that when I said goodbye to my family I would now enter the other side and did not know when I would return from my shamanic journey. Especially on this particular occasion, I was at a devastating loss. Because I was in the land of the non-material for so long, it was hard to find my way back; and upon returning, I was unequipped more than ever before to integrate what had happened with whom I was.

My getting lost in that world for days on end during this hospitalization felt like an eternity. My memories of that timelessness will provide me lifetimes of rich inspiration. However, while most of the imagery was positive and insightful, many visions were destabilizing so it was imperative that I was carefully watched, and I knew that. For ten days I was on 24 hour observation with my room door open as I existed in the wakeful dream state, roaming in my imagination, acting out one ritual after another, one epic dream flowing into the next, entertaining the staff and the inmates alike, all during the long nights into the following days throughout the good part of the week. But as insane as I must have looked to all peering in, I was in training. I was learning how to jump into timeless dimensions through doorways in time.

On this hospital visit, I requested a single room for the first few days of my stay, so that I could shamanic journey in private when I needed to access information to make sense of the mess I was currently in. I practiced being an owl, an eagle, and a sparrow. Practicing their natures helped me see things through a larger, bird’s eye perspective, which I needed more than ever on that flight. The owl’s spirit medicine gives wisdom from warnings and prophecies in dreams, which clearly led me there once again. My eagle yoga stance helped me create a sort of invincibility barrier of protection so that the powers-that-be in that hospital would know who to leave alone.  And my sparrow power animal came to me on my nature walks and showed up in some coloring pages in art therapy class. I brought them back to my 4-white-walled room to gaze upon during my stay.  This communication with spirit animals strengthens the shaman on her journey providing guidance along the way and back home.

Today, after much learning and mistakes along the way, I let the inspiration hit me as it wills. Sometimes there is none. But some inspiration is reminiscent of the powerful, ecstatic rushes of days past when I couldn’t write or paint fast enough. In these states I respond to the call of my creative muses and enter ecstatic prayer and deep trances in shamanic journeying late into the night, which is a no-no amongst the psychiatric institution. But I dare to make the journey.

Connecting with my celestial, creative muses is always a private affair and when that landscape opens up, energies from the other side can communicate—whether they are my angel guardians, or bloodline ancestors, or indigenous spirits from the world of yesterday—that Holy Spirit is alive and vibrant when I enter that space with committed intention. I’ve learned for decades how to hide my inspiring moments so that I can safely access them without people thinking I am having an “episode.” And then when no one is watching, I enter my shamanic journey without fear or hesitation.

It is sad to me that the psychiatric institution does not encourage many to listen to the whispers in the wind as I have, ones that show me the way through my intuition. Some have never been led as I have by a recurring symbol in nature that warms your heart popping up again and again at just the right moment so that you finally notice that eagle soaring above you high in the clouds; or one that leads you to see a rainbow at just the right colorful angle on a sad day. Making meaning of the universe’s magnificence through symbolism is essential when one asks for inspiration from something larger than oneself. These things are what are important in life. It’s the stuff that makes all the hardship and suffering worth it.

Jan 21

Biological Psychology: Stealing the Mysteries of Our Futures…


 The Biomedical Model



Let us ring in the new year with the latest scientific discovery. Last week science writer, Jenny Chen, writes an article in The Atlantic, “Childhood Guilt, Adult Depression?” and within days links and commentary were published all over the web. Prominent news sites like the Chicago Sun-Times, International Psychologists, and Huffington Post, to name but a few, open a forum of discussion on these new facts that have been heroically revealed in the medical field and suddenly everyone proclaims, “Ahh, now I understand!” And all I can see between the lines of those who are in support of the validity of this research are the words, “Please tell me what to think!” Unfortunately most people are quite content being told what to think about their own brains. They have long ago bought into the idea that we have no free will and that biology determines everything.

I am opposed to the biomedical model in determining psychiatric problems in people. Although the model is considered the leading approach for modern mental health care today, it focuses purely on biology. In physical illnesses this approach can be appropriate for determining much pathology, but in psychology it is simplistic and lacking. There is a litany of limitations to this perspective. The biomedical model strictly adheres to nature over nurture. It does not take into account other factors that play a role such as social structures, environmental causes, cultural differences, or individually subjective aspects in the analysis, and it does not care to do so.

Although lately this approach to psychology is all the rage, it greatly underestimates the complexity of human behavior. It is reductionist in its nature by oversimplifying the vastly complex brain system and its interaction with its environment. It implies that a person is nothing more than the sum of her parts. It supports deterministic thinking, which allows very little room for free will and personal responsibility. When we assume that these areas are predictive and therefore unchangeable, we are dooming our children to a future with no hope, restricting their freedom of mind and heart.

Using both nature and nurture as factors inside an analysis is the only way to make any kind of statement about human behavior. Unfortunately the answers are never neat and orderly as much as biological scientists want them to be.


The Study: Conclusions and Problems


genetics-emotion-anterior-insula fixBrain scan


The research was based on brain scans of 145 children in the range of ages 7-13. The caregivers were given surveys measuring symptoms of excessive guilt in their children such as constantly apologizing for a minor misbehavior or feeling guilty for things that happened a long time ago. The results are in. Said Joan Luby, one of the authors of the study, “In the kids who had high levels of guilt, even the kids who weren’t necessarily depressed, they had smaller anterior insula volume, and that smaller anterior insula volume is predictive of later occurrence of depression. This research suggests that early childhood experiences impact the way the brain develops.” Predictive? The size of a part of a person’s brain makes an accurate case for a child’s future? Wow, what a conclusion.

In order to measure the research in this kind of comparative psychology, scientists use scans of brains from people who are mentally ill and compare them with brains of those they deem as normal. But exactly whose brains qualify as normal? When compared to the abnormal brains are the normal ones normal in every area? Surely this brain belongs to a person with some kind of problem. Out of all abnormal behaviors, and according to the DSM there are over 300 of them, it is almost mathematically certain that this normal brain must suffer from some kind of mental problem. Does this other mental problem also show up in the imaging taking place? Or has that not been yet mapped out? Whatever the case may be, making comparisons in brain sizes in order to make a prediction about a kid’s future doesn’t sound like science to me. Yet it has a lot of things in common with fortune telling.

Brain scan research has extremely low ecological validity because it is organized in artificial settings that lack realism, unlike research of high ecological validity conducted in settings in natural environments. Since this research has barely any connection with a situation found in a real-life setting, do these studies measure what they are supposed to be measuring?

The researchers have dealt with the issue of excessive guilt. But how much guilt is too much? Guilt in itself is not a bad thing. Simply, it is the feeling of having committed a wrong or failed in an obligation. Guilt can be a tool to self-regulate one’s behavior, and in the past we believed it played a role in revealing a person’s conscience. Guilt may certainly be overemphasized in some families, and something that may feel guilty in one family may not provoke the same feeling in another; both states of mind, however, may be valid. The emotion of guilt by its very nature is not always rational. And children being as innocent and impressionable as they are, are more emotional than logical.


Causalitydepression guilt 2


One of the gravest errors in predictions based on biological experiments in psychology is that the direction of causality cannot be inferred. Are children predisposed to depression likely to experience excessive guilt or does the appearance of excessive guilt cause mental illness to emerge?  Michelle New, a psychologist and associate professor at the George Washington University Medical School in Washington, D.C., doesn’t believe it matters in the clinical setting. “It’s not like that symptom is going to go away,” she said. “What’s important is that we practice early intervention and prevention.”

A “symptom” like guilt cannot go away? In my personal experience this “symptom” of guilt, (I always labeled it a feeling), dissipated when I apologized for something I did that was wrong, or I made a plea through a prayer to God asking for his forgiveness, or after much personal analysis of my flawed behavior I rose to the mature realization that in order to let go of the guilt, I needed to forgive myself and move on. But according to this researcher, if I had a particular brain imaging as a child, my symptom of guilt simply will not go away, and I’d be better off to bring in the mental health professionals in kindergarten so as to give me early intervention to not think a certain way.

We must empower our children by teaching them skills to cope in life by managing their feelings, however difficult they may be, not giving them the hopeless idea that they have no inherent ability to take care of their emotional states. We should be helping them become self-reliant and confident by believing in themselves, not ashamed of their defective anatomy creating dependence upon external institutions and long-term medical assistance.


TooManyPigeons fix

Early Intervention


According to Jenny Chen, New believes that, “…this research could help pinpoint specific brain anatomy to identify children who are at high risk for later-life mental disorders. New states, ‘This research is really new and exciting because you can look at changes in the brain, and it shows that early intervention is really important. Dismissing early symptomatology is dangerous,’ she said. New explained that mental disorders are often latent between the ages of four and 12, and so being able to identify children at high risk for mood disorders helps parents and mental-health professionals engage in preventative measures earlier in life.”

I love the word “pinpoint” because that is exactly what they are doing with this approach to helping children. Putting them in a box, pigeon-holing, and tagging children as young as seven with a label held down by a pin just the way entomologists do to pretty and ugly beetles alike in the drawers of classified things in the American Museum of Natural History.

In New York State, early intervention governmental assisted programs are offered in everything from occupational therapy to physical therapy, from speech therapy to social behavior therapy, and are highly sought after from parents who are worried about the slightest behavior in their children off the benchmark chart. I never submitted to this excessive worry on every level. Some things I believed were important issues to be addressed, and other things I believed would take care of themselves over the course of time in my son’s natural development. I sought after speech therapy for him when I saw after the first year in nursery school he was still suffering from being misunderstood amongst his teachers and peers, which was directly affecting his interaction with others.

But the program facilities wanted to overschedule Jack’s day with other early intervention measures too. I finally put a stop to the invasive and endless testing when they suggested Jack be given physical therapy because I answered a question on a survey that stated that he couldn’t catch a ball from three feet away. Maybe a few times he did, but that wasn’t an option on the multiple choice. I felt the intrusion of judgment to be rather unfair and simplistic, especially when my son inherited genes from my husband who still had trouble catching a ball. Needless to say my husband never aced gym class or became a ball player, but instead he is a highly successful banker. I wonder what would have happened if my husband received early intervention instead.

Similar to the way psychologists push governmental early intervention programs so that they have continued monetary support, New tries to validate biological research by putting the guilt trip on parents with her warnings that not responding to these early “symptoms” is dangerous. Did I endanger my son for not giving him physical therapy at age 3? I think not. Intuitively, I withheld pressure and instead waited for him to feel a little more coordinated with his body. An extra year or two later than his peers he eventually threw himself into gymnastics, an activity he has committed to for years. In addition, at the ripe old age of 8 he is on the peewee basketball team, and gym is his favorite subject.

The biomedical point of view helps promote the mental health industry and helps it thrive in many facets. The pharmaceutical industry develops new drugs each year to take care of new symptoms that crop up with each revised issue of the DSM. Psychiatrists continue to have customers increasingly younger due to the latest vogue idea of early intervention, and while everyone is happier and mentally stable, as a society we are becoming more and more imprisoned and less interested in matters of the soul.


 Perpetuating Stigma



In a dead robotic world teaching us that human feelings are nothing other than chemicals and our minds are made up of little more than cells and tissue, maybe we need some of these depressed, manic, and anxious folk to open their mouths to share the truth with people. Wake them up out of the coma the psychiatric community is convincing us to believe, namely, that by using the biological model they are helping change the stigma of mental illness.

Unfortunately, the mental illness awareness community of today is the strongest promoter of the biomedical psychiatric model. Yet this very philosophy further perpetuates the stigma by suggesting there is fundamentally something wrong with us on the deepest level of our DNA. They assert the model is scientific with many empirical studies to support it, but the realm of the mind branches from more than just our biology.

It’s in the language. Declaring that a person is not in charge of their own future due to their unfortunate heredity especially in regard to unpredictable future feelings and thoughts, is crippling and disempowering. This is yet another message to all children and their parents to lock their kids into thinking they are mentally ill way before anything should ever occur. It creates a restricted mind and does so at the earliest age.

Fostering the self-fulfilling prophecy, these beliefs become our reality because we act as if they are already true. Having expectations that we will see certain outcomes affects our behavior toward ourselves and each other. Thus, when any feedback returns to us that supports our preconceived notions, our original suppositions are reinforced making it difficult to recognize information to the contrary. A person’s life cannot be determined by computer imaging. Our worlds are shaped by our choices, lifestyles, upbringings, points of view, world beliefs, socioeconomic backgrounds–the list is extensive. Beyond the way our brains look in a scan, what resides inside is much more important.


physiognomy fixWe Are Not Physical Alone


Funny, this style of identifying physical constructs and then predicting certain character traits or propensity of future behaviors is very reminiscent of the 18th century notion of physiognomy, a pseudoscience that was fueled by the belief in racial superiority. This outdated view assessed the nature of one’s character or personality based on a person’s outer appearance, especially the shape of the head and face, to explain why these inferior and superior characteristics existed.

Scientists made comparisons between the races they chose as normal and the races they deemed as inferior helping them make “scientific conclusions” on such matters.  Just as in days past scientists are now trying to prove that certain mental types are more healthy and normal than others, not by comparing forehead shapes but rather, brain sizes. Today we have the ability to look inside the person’s head with brain images measuring physical structures in the brain, an organ that we know so little about that much of the work that brain scientists are doing is based on speculation. Most scientists can admit that alongside the growing data in this area are widening gaps of understanding.

While brain scientists make sweeping conclusions on a grand scale, they work on a tiny scale analyzing networks of cells in labs of low ecological validity. Identity, personality, memory, all the things that define a human being, do not only grow out of the way our brains appear, but out of experiences we each have, out of our consciousness, and out of our relationship with the Divine.

Strange. In a day when we believe we have progressed as a species, we are somehow convinced that the size of one’s anterior insula alone, a small part of the brain’s physical structure, actually determines future feelings and behavior years before something should ever be provoked. Scientists do not know why these parts are bigger, and it may not even matter all that much. They are simply making observations about something material and extrapolating from that a conclusion about something immaterial. Mental things and physical things are in two different genres, apples and oranges. This so-called science uses biology in a way that could never thoroughly explain issues that are non-local inside the heart.



Robbing Our Future Choices


 places youll go fWhy are we obsessed with preventing future states of mind? What are we afraid of? In the name of controlling the depressed kids of tomorrow by shaping the way they feel today, we are taking them away from being the authors of their own lives and instead making them patients. We are all in a state of healing, possibly some more than others. But have we stopped to consider that maybe these kids of tomorrow with small anterior insulas have special gifts not yet known to us to help shape a beautiful future world? Who are we to stop those gifts from growing and blossoming? Is it all in the name of biological psychology?

In my opinion preventing future mental illness has a lot more to do with making the right choices in life, thereby reinforcing those thoughts associated with such states of mind. For me personally, I lost mental grounding when I was impatient, when I had become arrogant and selfish, when I lost faith in something larger than myself and held little respect for others in my life. If I had practiced the opposite: patience, selflessness, faith, and respect for others, my life’s detour may never have materialized. I never at any point believed that the size of select parts of my brain had any factor in it.

It is the brave new world, my friends. The truth hurts whether you want to believe it or not. Tell me what to think, and I will be ok. If I am made to disengage myself from messy emotions, maybe I can avoid a further messy situation like depression in the future.

But let’s not get too wrapped up in the packaging. Life is life. It’s most often unpredictable. My brain may house my emotional activity, but it does not experience the feelings in the way my heart does.



Dec 19

Chemical Imbalances: Established Science or Mythical Theory?



Societal Conditioning in the Scientific Worldview…

A number of proposed causes of mental illness have been circling in the air for some time, and one of the most repellant to me is that brains with mental illness, when compared to normal brains, show a chemical imbalance deficiency of neurotransmitters like serotonin and norepinephrine. Somehow this theory over the years has gained widespread momentum, and we accept it without any investigation because it has been purported as truth time and time again. But is this a sound scientific theory based on facts?

I had a debate with a friend who was convinced that the chemical imbalance theory had been irrefutably proven without doing the slightest bit of research on the issue. Nothing can be farther from the truth. The theory is based on no conclusively sound, biochemical evidence whatsoever. In fact, not one single peer reviewed article to date supports the claim that there is a serotonin deficiency in any mental disorder; not only that, but many show evidence to the contrary. So why does the majority of Americans believe this theory to be proven true?

Our society has told us that science delivers us the most authoritative comprehension of our world and the most valuable part of our learning experience to the exclusion of all other viewpoints. Our dependence upon scientific conclusions on delivering the ultimate truth to us has shaped our worldview and has become a form of religion, namely that of “scientism.” We look to a few select scientists in the world who we believe have the only capacity of those alive to figure out for us the most important human issues, instead of relying on our own personal experiences to determine and shape the stories of our lives.

So in a world where what we believe with certainty can only be true if it’s backed by science, where things can only be considered part of our reality if they are established through some measuring tool showing some kind of empiricism, how is it that we take all this psychiatric jargon as true when there is no conclusive evidence whatsoever? True science is predicated upon the scientific method; namely, that to be termed scientific, the theory needs to be based on empirical or measurable evidence subject to specific principles of reasoning. But what instead has occurred in psychiatric medicine is the exact opposite. It has perpetuated myth.



Missing Empirical Data

Western medicine firmly asserts that physical, biological causes of illnesses provide the most logical answer to all health problems. But considering how non-local and ethereal matters of the mind actually are for all of us, it is a conundrum how biological theories for mental illness outweigh all others. Many scientists, however, are starting to take a different approach. “We’re certainly not saying that people should ignore biological factors when studying mental disorders,” says Yale professor of psychology, Woo-kyoung Ahn, “but it’s crucial to understand biology as something that’s part of all human experience, rather than something that separates so-called mentally ill people from everyone else.”

In no instance would we accept that we have a chronic physical illness unless there was some kind of proof found through a measurable test. How often do we hear doctors say, “I know there are all these symptoms, but I don’t know what’s wrong with you.” If they don’t have any test results to prove otherwise, we belief there is no pathogen to worry about.

Imagine you suspect you have high blood sugar. You go to your doctor with your concerns. He suggests a test that will determine your levels so that he can accurately diagnose you. If the tests come back negative and show you have proper levels, you are relieved. If on the other hand, levels show otherwise, a course of treatment is suggested. This is how a physical illness is addressed.

In contrast, if you walk into a psychiatrist office stating your list of symptoms, which in my opinion are really feelings and states of mind that have been shaped and triggered by some outside source or inside conflict, no test is given and therefore no results are obtained. The first thing the psychiatrist does is refer to his Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Illnesses, which contains labels made up of nothing more than observable behaviors from people on the outside. Beyond marking behaviors, knowledge regarding lifestyle, relationships, and family history is not usually considered necessary in making the diagnosis. Frequently it is discussed later on in psychotherapy after the diagnosis has already been determined and the medical code for your insurance issued. A drug treatment plan and a course of action that usually involves trips to the therapist for weeks, months, and sometimes years at a time is then prescribed.

Unlike for physical illness, NO tests determining chemical levels are given to the people who are actually suffering with mental illness symptoms. So how can we know for sure that the mentally ill have irregular chemistry inside their brains if no tests can determine this? Can we call this biological science if it is based merely on assumption alone? This is akin to diagnosing a person with diabetes without taking any blood tests, or attributing cancer to someone without taking a biopsy. Without ever seeing any results from any medical litmus test, how can one fairly assess a morbid state like a chemical imbalance in the brain without looking at scientific evidence?

Quite simply, doctors do not test for these levels because it just isn’t possible to measure serotonin and norepinephrine in the brains of patients. Chris Kessler, author of the New York Times best seller, Your Personal Paleo Code, points out on his blog, “Estimates of brain neurotransmitters can only be inferred by measuring the biogenic amine breakdown products (metabolites) in the urine and cerebrospinal fluid. The assumption underlying this measurement is that the level of biogenic amine metabolites in the urine and cerebrospinal fluid reflects the amount of neurotransmitters in the brain. However, less than one-half of the serotonin and norepinephrine metabolites in the urine or cerebrospinal fluid come from the brain. The other half come from various organs in the body. Thus, there are serious problems with what is actually being measured.”



Beyond Chemicals

The unsubstantiated chemical imbalance theory is also debilitating within the healing process. The faulty assumption that chemical imbalances are the direct cause for abnormal behavior and emotions, does not lead to positive movement in self-growth. It implies that even after healing has begun, a person has no control over any intense emotional or mental states. The hope that things can change for the better is nullified, and trust that change is within their control is elusive.

We need to reclaim our autonomy in healing ourselves without presupposing limitations that faulty brain “chemistry” might suggest. I was told for decades that I had a chemical imbalance and that this bipolar disease and its symptoms were outside of my direct control, an explanation that offered me little hope to rise above such limitations. This notion can sensibly offer patients short term relief in attributing unpredictable and disruptive actions as involuntary expressions in times of crisis, as they sometimes are. But when things return to balance, holding to the same reasoning only teaches us that our actions are not to be trusted because we lack control over them. Excusing us from all responsibility also takes away the empowering human belief that we own our lives and can direct them through our personal actions and thoughts.

I cannot deny that some extreme emotions may trigger certain chemicals to move to and fro inside our brains. But let’s be clear about something: chemicals in the brain and how they move around do not directly cause certain emotions to appear as if we are machines lacking repair. Whether or not my emotions can be shown to have certain dopamine levels does not negate the fact that emotions themselves are real and exist in their own state of non-local space. My emotions may certainly leave a chemical trail behind them, but they are not merely chemical compounds that exist in neuropathways inside my brain. Emotions live inside the heart.



Beliefs Shape Our Reality

This imposed belief system by the “experts” reinforces the idea that biology is something that cannot be overridden or changed in any way. All one has to do is look at the yogis of the Far East to see how one has all the power in the world to do everything from dropping one’s breathing patterns into theta states, to sitting in a ridiculous pretzel pose for hours on end—feats that seem practically impossible to most people but are certainly achievable for those who use their minds to overcome natural human limitations.

The mental health and mental illness awareness community have graciously accepted biological explanations regarding mental illness for a number of reasons, and the most obvious one is that the benefits that result for the pharmaceutical and insurance companies are enormous. Entire industries thrive that are predicated on the premise that drug treatment is not only an option, but most often a necessity. A dependency is efficiently created, properly coded insurance claims are submitted, and a lifelong customer is attained.

Another more covert reason is that the theory controls a certain group of the population, namely the erratic kind. Patients who are convinced their brains are somehow chemically diseased not only believe they have no power to change within themselves, but also they lack the belief that they can have the ability to positively influence or change the state of the world in which they live.

Claiming that mental illness is not something within your control — just like getting the flu or food poisoning, or developing cancer isn’t within your control may be true on one level. Mental illness shows up when you least expect it, and you don’t invite it in. During unpredictable times that crept upon me without any warning, my bipolar disorder, (or as I like to describe it: my bipolar personality), caused much upheaval in my life destroying my most intimate relationships and cherished goals. I certainly did not have the power in directing the tornados that from to time crashed through my life. But, and this is a big but, life is meant to be messy, not perfect.

Erroneously, the mental health community believes that stigma will lessen by pointing to factors that are directly outside of our control, (namely our biology), to explain unpredictable and involuntary behaviors, thereby absolving the victims who suffer from them. While all intentions are good, the communities that should be supporting the mentally ill are, in fact, further promoting the mental illness stigma. The idea that we are somehow different than others through faulty biology is demeaning, dismissive and lacks compassion. When a person suffers emotionally and reacts to pain in their lives negatively, I see a normal individual who is dealing with problems with human living just like anyone else, regardless of her biology.

We mentally ill have far more control than we think. We are not disabled people. Convincing people who mentally suffer that they have no control over their illness, is like saying they have no control over the rest of their entire lives. A physical illness like food poisoning goes away, but we will always live with our minds. Our minds are not a chronic condition. But by convincing ourselves that we are somehow chemically different from normal people, we continue to define ourselves as a result of our uncontrollable chemistry and submit to the “mental illness” label as if that’s the only explanation that holds any weight in the equation.

The human experience contains naturally good times and bad. These bad times show up in life and for some of us can trigger some very unbecoming behaviors. In time, any “symptoms” that show themselves can be treated and often eradicated. As time heals wounds, so does applied effort and belief in oneself that one does have the power within to get better. We can use cognitive therapy, prayer, exercise, diet change, medicine, holistic therapies and a whole selection of combined treatments to redirect the course of our lives regardless of any biological framework that houses our neurotransmitters.

Mental illness is within an area that is arguably non-local, meaning it doesn’t have its main expression inside the brain physically. We are not just a skin sac of chemicals. We may have a body, but within it contains a soul and a heart. Because we are tied down to the 3-D world in these “body-suits” given to us by God, (not evolved from pond scum), emotions need to be housed in chemical compositions in a physical container. I see each of us as having unique brain chemistry with a single signature linked to each one of our DNA compositions. Yours is different from mine, and mine is no more chemically clean or dirty than yours. My brain is not a car engine. I am not a walking disease because of imbalanced chemicals in my brain. I am much more than that. I am a human being.

May 11

Freud’s Psychoanalysis: Is It Time We Moved On?


Psychiatry’s Relationship to Psychoanalysis

I can’t get away from it. I see them everywhere. The four-eyed doctors sitting with analytical cruelty behind a one-dimensional interpretation of reality that I see as senseless. There she is. As I exit the Mount Kisco Greek diner she’s sitting there proud and straight-backed, robotic and brainwashed. It’s Dr. Innez. And across the table of pancakes and breakfast sausages sits another one just like her—the psychiatrists of our Westchester medical universe. Both of whom are probably making connections that make no sense in the real world where I live, but in the scrutinizing world where they live. They foolishly believe they know just what the only reality is, the way it actually is, through their outdated psychoanalysis.

My personal experience has given me insight into the psychiatric institution on a grand scale. An entire “science” has stemmed from the attempt to answer this question: “Why are people abnormal?” At psychiatry’s onset, the problem did not arise from the question. The problem arose from the fact that only a small population of the world was allowed to answer it—namely, white European males.  And its philosophy is much stranger and darker than you think, existing inside the long, winding corridors of a weirdo’s imagination. And that weirdo is Freud.

Austrian psychiatrist, Sigmund Freud, is considered the father of psychoanalysis, and his theories fueled philosophical ideologies for over a century. Freud’s psychology heralds itself as the most influential psychological study of all time. His writings have been given over the years sacred status. But his philosophies resemble more of a cult than a continually developing scientific program.

His theories are grand delusional nursery rhyme fantasies that created a pseudoscience at best. And our society’s current psychiatric institution seems more like some perverse expression of a Freudian fantasy gone too far. It’s clear we’re stuck in the head of Freud down here, and I can’t see much in this deep, subterranean unconscious. There’s basically very few colorful choices leading to new theory, and that’s a problem.

Freud influences the field of psychiatry to such a great extent that tens of thousands of people are addicted to their psychoanalyst’s interpretations of their lives. One can argue that the field of psychiatry has become a form of a police state, exercising control over a certain expressive sect of the population, and within its techniques lies psychoanalysis, which has become a central vehicle for the power over our minds. In addition, its methods are also reminiscent of the confessional techniques resembling that of the Catholic Christian tradition, where the guilt is so overwhelming that one must succumb to his lack of self-love and self-esteem in a private setting with a sacred mediator.

Many have argued that Freud set back the study of psychology and psychiatry by over fifty years, and in doing so, he has created a whole sect of patients who have become disabled in depending on themselves to make meaning of their own lives, and instead, depend on their psychoanalyst to interpret their reality for them. In my own experience, it didn’t make sense that the psychoanalysts should be so sure about the inner space of my psyche, as if they could peer inside my mind and see its deep-rooted, unconscious, repressed neuroses doing a dance. But psychoanalysis encourages this very idea—that someone else can interpret your mind for you.

The psychiatric institution is encouraging our society to embrace a psychology that fosters dependence and invokes disability in directing the course of our own lives, which is as outdated and old-fashioned as bustles and corsets.

psycho mag

Freud’s Philosophy

After one’s outpatient visit from a psychiatric hospital, a treatment plan is offered, which pairs talk therapy with medication. Talk therapy, which is often psychoanalysis, is typically the only prescription (along with meds) for a person suffering with mental illness. But while psychotherapy is widely considered the most necessary of all mental health options, it can ironically be debilitating mentally. Opening up one’s stories of private mental distress to dispassionate questions about one’s psyche does not heal a vulnerable mental state.

In Freudian psychoanalysis, the patient verbally expresses his or her thoughts to the analyst who then can infer the unconscious conflicts causing the patient’s symptoms and character problems. As he interprets these conflicts for the patient, the analyst is thought to help create insight for the resolution of the problem and clarify the patient’s pathological defenses, wishes and guilt. But they arrive at this “clarity” by spending their time interpreting the nuances of a person’s communication by way of suspicion. Psychoanalysis searches for deception in language, and thereby destabilizes our natural reliance on clear, obvious meanings. For example, Freud encouraged the method of “free association” to infer the unconscious content of the patients’ wishes and dreams. This method encourages patients to talk freely about a prompt, without censorship or inhibition, about whatever ideas or memories occur to them.

The first time I entered a mental hospital I was given a test based on Freud’s free association theory that apparently measured, so they said, my mental development and neurosis at the time. I was given a wide variety of pictures and told to say the first thing that came to mind. But at the time, I had just recently had a life-threatening experience in suffering from dysentery in India, which was clearly influencing my answers, and which seemed to them exaggerated and lacking a sound interpretation of reality. In this test they encouraged me to report my thoughts and feelings without hesitation and make no attempt to concentrate or think over my answer before doing so. This puts the entire control of healing into the hands of the psychoanalyst who is expected to determine—using a miniscule amount of information—the patient’s mental and emotional problems. And yet the answers to the test were regarded as “proof” of my emotional immaturity and are in my psychiatric records forevermore for any therapist to gaze upon in further analysis.

Psychoanalysis believes that a person’s development is most often determined by forgotten events or figures in early childhood that lay in the unconscious. While this can be seen in some people’s experience with dysfunction in their family ties, a great many people have had very healthy relations with their families and to say something is inherently in one’s unconscious psyche when it is not is a form of mind control. In my years of psychotherapy, I was encouraged to keep analyzing my familial conflicts and how they got buried in my unconscious no matter what the subject, as they ignored more relevant topics—especially that of India. I was always asked about my mother and father and about what they did to me, and even when I couldn’t think of anything that was a sufficient answer, I was told to consider such connections before my next session like a homework assignment. Frequently, patients get locked into this kind of therapy for years and even decades trying to work on familial issues that should have been long forgotten and let go of by early adulthood.

Psychoanalysis also purports that human attitude, mannerism, experience, and thought is largely influenced by irrational drives that are rooted in the unconscious.  And it relies on the concept that only after having a cathartic experience under the help of a psychoanalyst can a person be assisted in recovery. Again creating dependence upon psychoanalysis and the drugs that go with it. If we give ourselves power to analyze our own shortcomings and develop personal plans on how to overcome our mental strain, we see that much control is inherent within conscious territory, not wandering forever in our unconscious whereby only a psychoanalyst can break us free from our irrationality.

In psychoanalysis, proponents believe it is necessary for patients to avoid psychological resistance in the form of defense mechanisms when bringing drives into awareness under a therapeutic setting. This approach usually results in the patient’s submissive deferring to the psychoanalyst on any matter. In states of mental vulnerability, suggestions by therapists can be taken seriously by the patient as though they are the primary reasons for our emotional and mental shifts. We accept their analysis of ourselves as more valid than our own, and thus, allow them to direct our actions and thoughts.



Fantasy or Fact?

As psychiatry’s relationship with psychoanalysis thrived throughout the decades, it continued to see itself as a real science—the saddest attempt I ever did see. Psychoanalysis’ usefulness has not been demonstrated through empirical science. Many critics of Freud regard him as making unscientific claims in his writing. His theories are largely incompatible with scientific approaches to the study of the mind. They are almost exclusively based on the clinical case study method, and not on quantitative and experimental research. He used a very limited and unrepresentative sample of patient cases—almost exclusively upper-class Austrian women of the late 19th century—which is not an efficient representative group, and therefore, his theories should not be placed as proven to the general populace. Further, many people I personally know who went through the psychoanalytic process have not resolved the conflicts that are in fact affecting their lives, and are often convinced that psychoanalysis was expensive and a waste of their time.

Naturally, Freud is best known for his Oedipus complex, in which in the phallic stage, a boy’s decisive psychosexual experience is in his son–father competition for possession of his mother. Freud tells us that much of this desire is in the unconscious sometimes shown in dreams. In his book, The Interpretation of Dreams, first published in 1899, Freud gives detailed interpretations of his own and his patients’ dreams in terms of wish-fulfillments. He believed dreams can be effectively analyzed to reveal unconscious material about subjects related to repression, which underlay symptom formation. Based on his case-studies, he would sometimes come across the Oedipus complex and believed that it was the source of much unconscious guilt. But he announced that the oedipal desire was universally innate to all human beings. Psychologist Steven Pinker wrote that “The idea that boys want to sleep with their mothers strikes most men as the silliest thing they have ever heard. Obviously, it did not seem so to Freud, who wrote that as a boy he once had an erotic reaction to watching his mother dressing.”

Scientific surveys have concluded that while personality traits corresponding to Freud’s oral, anal, Oedipal, and genital phases can be observed, they do not necessarily manifest as stages in the development of all children. Let’s be honest here. Freud, who in fantasizing about fucking his mother, came up with an entire philosophy that ‘proves’ his theories and ended up convincing everyone that every human being must be afflicted with the same neurosis.



A Misogynistic Point of View

Further, Freud’s misogynistic point of view considered a girl’s negative Oedipus complex to be possibly more emotionally intense than that of a boy, which would result in a woman with a submissive and insecure personality. Or it could lead to a phallic stage fixation, or penis envy, or may lead to a girl who continually strives to dominate men. Or possibly result in an unusually seductive woman with high self-esteem or an unusually submissive woman with low self-esteem. He basically covers the whole gamut of women’s personalities, calling them all neurotic and mentally ill.

These theories were put forth in a period where women had no say in anything and were highly persuaded on such matters with little freedom to choose an alternative explanation about their own mental and emotional states of mind. Madness and neurosis were prevalent during their day when deep recesses of the mind were being explored. It was a time of psychological darkness and mental and emotional oppression, as there were no choices, no options outside of what those privileged white men were deciding was the norm for every person on Earth where answers about the mind were concerned.

The time period imposed rigid confines on society, and the stifling social values were impossible to uphold. During an age that repressed people’s creativity and aspirations, both England and America were rampant with melancholia. Many were women. This was largely because their potential at the time was so suppressed, that they frequently coped through shutting down and de-pressing their spirits. They were stifled into sexual hysteria, severe anxiety, and depression. Further, there were many who suffered bouts with madness such as in novels like Emily Bronte’s Jane Eyre, where the crazy wife is locked in the attic, or in Elizabeth Gillman’s The Yellow Wallpaper, which portrays the woman expected by her husband to sit in her room all day, every day, until she got magically lost in the designs on the wall.

During this same time period in Europe, Sigmund Freud’s work in psychology grew in high regard. He viewed sanity as proper adjustment to social norms, however unfair, and considered insanity as a state that showed struggle and confusion in the psyche—a reality that is often a prerequisite of true awakening. Freud was from the powerful and privileged social class with access to the best schooling who regarded their own perverted interpretation of reality as absolute fact. He took his limited observations from his patients—a very small population of his own “kind” and mostly women—and projected it onto the general population of society. His brilliant “penis envy” concept is ridiculously still taken seriously in some academic circles, yet he only came up with it because he was visited by all the Austrian women in town of high upper class society who had no way of exercising their own power with their misogynist husbands. He believed he could accurately understand the psychological realities of all others alive based on his philosophy alone, which was saturated in a misogynistic point of view.  And yet, Freud flourished and became highly regarded as a man with the answers regarding states of mental illness from only a relative subjective perspective.


just plain nuts

A Therapeutic Setting

By no means am I claiming that therapy isn’t useful or therapeutic. But when entering a space when looking for aid in settling the mind’s mental strain, one needs to be careful when choosing a therapist and psychiatrist because in the end, they are dancing within a very personal territory and can harm such a private realm, which contain one’s personal thoughts and feelings.

Currently, I have a helluva good psychiatrist who doesn’t expect me to prattle on blaming my neurotic parents or overanalyze current neuroses or painful stories, but rather asks intelligent questions throughout the session that directly link to the healing process in helping me through painful times to help me get on my own two feet again. He got to know me over the years as a person with goals and dreams that are reachable and real, not as a mental patient who is only motivated by unattainable wish fulfillment.

Psychiatry needs to operate within respectful parameters. Mentally ill patients no doubt need assistance, but other than psychoanalysis, part of any treatment regimen should include a plan for changes in lifestyle or a renewed personal philosophy that can only be created by the patient herself. A patient should feel safe under a therapeutic setting—not overanalyzed—whereby she can enter a space where she can heal in a more compassionate environment. And psychiatry owes that to its patients if it positions itself as an institution that truly exists for healing.


Dec 23

Our Human DNA Code


It continually mesmerizes me…

In my night dreams and daydreams, in my visions and in my communication with God, the magnitude of its meaning rests always upon me.

Darwinists claim it holds the proof of evolution. Creationists believe the code is the ultimate example of God’s perfect design.  And Ancient Alien theorists find in it clues left behind from gods of yesteryear who tinkered with our code to create something new, for better or for worse.

Check out how Transhumanists are convinced Human DNA can be improved upon:



It is the ultimate mystery holding the most complex of answers.

Some ancient Egyptian experts say that understanding of the double helix was revealed in early hieroglyphics and preserved through the mystery schools for thousands of years way before Crick and Watson’s discovery.

Below the following radio interview shows an interesting point of view that researchers like Tom Horn and Steve Quayle hold, using theories based on references in the bible. Namely, it regards DNA manipulation of mankind before “the days of Noah” in Genesis 6,  which refer to the Nephilim, (or fallen angels).



Social Darwinism emerged from DNA fascination, which led to Eugenics, which then influenced Naziism. Each day the implications of genetic inheritance, (of either illnesses, characteristics or talents), continue to support the billions of dollars poured into the Human Genome Project. Our fascination with our Human DNA drives every one of us in some deep unconscious way, even if it’s simply wishing for a change of eye color. Below is part 1 of 4 parts of an informative documentary film on the history of the relationship between evolutionism, Social Darwinism, racism, and eugenics.


For even more, go to my YouTube page, Crazy Redemption, and subscribe. Many additional video links are there which cover a wide range of aspects regarding our Human DNA Code.



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