Stasis doesn’t make for a pleasing narrative. In stasis there is no character development, no change of scene, no synthesis of opposites or conclusive revelation. In stasis there are no opposites at all, and no conclusions. There’s no hook to latch onto in the beginning (there is no beginning) and no hinge upon which the story can turn (there is no turning and no direction). There’s no story at all, because there’s no time in which to tell it.
Sometimes, I have no story. I can present no humanizing narrative and relate no personal experience to a universal condition. I cannot string words together; I cannot make a sound; I cannot move.
I can feel it coming on: my thoughts begin to dissolve as a kind of woolly numbness pervades my consciousness. The speech of others disintegrates, somewhere between my ear and my mind, into a wordless mush of animal hubbub. Sense begins to separate from content – the room is not comprehensible as a room, its composite objects are not comprehensible as objects, their sensory qualities are not comprehensible as sensory information. My body is not comprehensible as any cohesive set of sensations revolving around a central sense of being. My body is not comprehensible at all, because I am no longer there to comprehend it.
It might take minutes, or it might take hours, but by this time I am frozen. I can hear your voice – sometimes I can even work out what you’re saying amidst the amorphous animal groans – but your voice is irrelevant. I know perfectly well that this is an uncomfortable-looking sitting position, but my body is not mine, and in any case is not a body, and in any case I am not an I who has or is a body, so I am in no position to sit up straight or to care whether or not I am sitting up straight.
I’m trying to think of how to continue this description. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks, and still: nothing. How can I resolve my explanation of the experience? How do I describe its process and its ending? I don’t know. I’m not there now: I can’t integrate stasis into my current flux-based perspective, except as a sparse memory of that which resists integration. Anyway, the preceding paragraphs don’t make sense. I told you I had no “I,” then proceeded to describe “my” experience within that state of not having an “I.” The notion that my experience is comprehensible hinges upon the assumption that I can relate my experience in a way that makes sense, both from the perspective of the listener and in concert with the nature of the experience. As I mentioned at the beginning, I don’t have any hinges upon which to swing this story.
When I first began experiencing these strange pseudo-catatonias, they were accompanied by strange pseudo-seizures. The senselessness of stasis was a counterpoint to the senselessness of chaotic action. My body was electric – not electric like a lamp, a possession to be switched on or off at will, but electric like a thunderstorm, a thing by which I was possessed, uncontrollably and overwhelmingly.
No physical cause could be found for these events, and in any case I already had a long history of insanity, so I was admitted to the psychiatric ward. No new diagnosis was forthcoming, but I was given new medications to try, which turned out to be exactly as useful as the old ones (in other words, not useful at all).
Sitting in a chair in view of the nurses’ station, I could feel myself freezing up again, but could do nothing to stop it or to ask for help. I could feel my limbs separating from my consciousness. They became soggy and cold, like wet newspaper, disintegrating in my awareness until I couldn’t tell where they were anymore. The soggy disintegration crept inwards from my extremities to my torso, and my mind crept inwards to escape from the dissolution. I couldn’t sit up straight, because I didn’t know where my body was in relation to the chair. I began to dribble, because I couldn’t connect my throat to the saliva in my mouth.
After an hour or so my boyfriend arrived on the ward to visit me; unsure how to assist, he fetched one of the nurses. She arrived with medication and a glass of water, and held them out to me. I didn’t move.
“If you don’t take the pills now, we’ll have to give you an injection.”
I didn’t want any injection, but I couldn’t straighten my neck, let alone lift my arm or hold a glass. Repeated exhortations that I take the medication elicited no effect, and the nurse became frustrated. She pushed the pills between my lips. I could feel them on my tongue: absurd, foreign, powdery shapes. These sensations were useless to me. I perceived that the nurse perceived that I was doing this on purpose. I wasn’t doing this on purpose, but I lacked the ability to explain this fact.
The nurse tilted my head back, opened my mouth, and poured the glass of water down my throat. She told me to swallow the pills. I couldn’t swallow the pills. I didn’t have control over that particular (any particular) physical mechanism. I couldn’t breathe. I was motionless, head tilted back with a lake in my throat where there ought to have been air. I was trapped in an unfathomably eternal glass of water, and I wondered if I was going to drown. In those seconds, time fragmented. All past and future moments simultaneously decoupled and fell away, and in that moment I knew there was no causal line in my existence. There was only an infinite spread of that singular present in which I held a body of water in place of my body of flesh.
* * * * *
Another time, another readmission, another hospital. I sat on one of those sturdy-but-not-too-sturdy chairs (one of those chairs that will resist most attempts to destroy it but is nevertheless a cost-effective alternative to comfort) in a small, white-painted room with a dull blue carpet. There was a window facing back into the ward, but it was covered with slatted blinds, shielding me and the psychiatrist from any inexpert view.
The psychiatrist had my file open on his lap, and seemed unaware, or at least unconcerned, that I could see what he was writing in it. He was recording and evaluating our conversation. I have no memory of the content of that conversation – I only remember the feeling of being in the room, and of watching him write an acronym on the page: FTD.
I assumed at the time (and I still believe this to be a reasonable assumption) that FTD meant Formal Thought Disorder. Formal Thought Disorder is a symptom of psychosis which entails a disorganization of thought process so severe that it renders the thoughts of the afflicted incomprehensible to the outside observer. As the clinician cannot have direct access to the patient’s thoughts, this symptom can only be observed vicariously, through the patient’s speech.
Personally, I think the fact that I was able to decipher my psychiatrist’s notes and then use that information to understand his assessment of my mental state suggests that he was incorrect in making that assessment. Then again, I had been admitted to the hospital because I was mad. How did I know that I was not hallucinating these letters FTD as the result of some persecutory delusion in which I had convinced myself of the prejudicial opinions of others? How did I know that my unshakeable belief that others thought me mad was not itself a pathological symptom of insanity? By virtue of admission to the hospital, I found myself in no position from which to judge.
My incapacity for judgement as a result of my insanity can always be ameliorated by those who wish to make a claim for sanity on my behalf. My psychologist (who believed I was not psychotic, but autistic) attempted to persuade my psychiatrist of his error. My psychiatrist – the one with the medical doctorate and therefore more to lose, emotionally speaking, in the admission of fallibility – refused to discuss the matter. My psychiatrist continued to treat me as schizophrenic, while my psychologist continued to see the pervasive developmental reason in any outlandish or otherwise irrational-sounding claim I made about my beliefs and experiences.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, I favored the opinion of my psychologist. I preferred the assessment of a seemingly lesser stigma, the diagnosis that supplants Frighteningly Insane with Harmlessly Incapable. Disagreement with a psychiatric diagnosis is often seen as evidence that one suffers from that diagnosis even more so than if one agrees with it. As such, my preference for not-being-insane was put down, by my psychiatrist, to Lack Of Insight – that most damning of symptoms which, in a single three-word slogan, divests the patient of all possibility of self-awareness.
* * * * *
Jenell Johnson writes that stigma is a rhetorical construction in that it marks out a Normal and an Other, denying the possibility of signification in the language of the other – the other’s speech is not read as voice, but rather as symptom. For this reason, Johnson doubts the efficacy of mental health anti-stigma campaigns that stress the medical model of “mental illness” and the notion that mentally ill people are simply afflicted by a disease, just like diabetes or asthma. The stigma of mental illness, Johnson claims, is not derived from beliefs, facts, or misinformation about its cause – whether biology, trauma, evil spirits, or bad character – but from the implicit value of Normal versus Other. As such, campaigns that rely on a supposedly universal part of humanity – biology – can have the effect of further stigmatizing people as hopelessly and incontrovertibly different, marked out by the presence of brain sickness.i
The word “stigma” has its origins in Ancient Greece. Derived from the verb “to prick,” to be stigmatized meant to have one’s sins and degeneracies symbolically tattooed on one’s skin as a permanent marker of social shame. Bearers of stigma were denied the citizen’s rights to public life and inclusion in debate. The permanent mark of bad character rendered a person’s speech permanently inadmissible.ii My Lack Of Insight means that I don’t know what I’m talking about, even when I sound like I know what I’m talking about.
In “On the Rhetorics of Mental Disability,” Catherine Prendergast recounts a conversation with her friend ‘Barbara’ (name changed in original text) who had been diagnosed with schizophrenia. When Barbara makes an insightful comment regarding the alteration of her mind via the social construction of psychiatry, Prendergast’s interest is piqued. Prendergast admits that, despite any professional interest she may have in Barbara’s viewpoint, the real reason she perked up at Barbara’s comment was that it made sense, and Prendergast wanted more than anything for her friend to make sense.iii
My ability to make sense is not something I can control, because making sense is a statement of perception, not a statement of being. Sometimes I make sense; sometimes I don’t. I don’t get to decide which it will be at any given time. Implicit in both my psychiatrist’s assessment of senselessness and my psychologist’s assessment of (qualified) reason is a denial of my own capacity for distinguishing sense and non-sense. The necessity of an outside opinion predetermines the fact of my madness, and so my sense-making is never really mine – not even after it has been granted to me by a qualified mental health professional. As such, the desire that I make sense remains perpetually unfulfilled, and the necessity that sense be made on my behalf is never eliminated.
I have lost interest in making sense. Insofar as the drive to recovery entails a relearning of sense sufficient to Make It (sense, I mean) in Normal Life, I have lost interest in recovery. Insofar as anti-stigma entails a reassertion of my apparently forgotten humanity via the retelling of some personal narrative in which I generalize my unique experiences toward some universal wisdom, I have lost interest in the reduction of stigma. I would much prefer it if you didn’t need me to be comprehensible. I would much prefer it if you didn’t require a narrative. The requirement that stigma be removed is enough to ensure that it will always be there, a residue of some past transgression that can never be scrubbed from the sensible narrative of my current life. Insofar as I must assert my humanity, my humanity can only be conceived as a performance: the unsaid fact of my bodily existence is rendered insufficient. The fact that this argument against sense is only convincing insofar as I can make it make sense to you is a source of profound irritation to me.
If I have survived mental illness, it is because I have stopped trying to survive it. The conception of mental illness as a thing to be borne is precisely what makes it unbearable. It is a limbo: a holding pattern, separate from normality, whose very position as separate is enough to render it inescapable.
* * * * *
I will come out of stasis as soon as I no longer need to be still and quiet. I will remember where my toes are, and my fingers. My internal monologue will recommence, and I will remember where I am and who you are. It might take hours, or even days, to fully reorient myself. The need to be still and quiet takes time to subside. I don’t need to survive this collapse: the collapse is a process of survival, not an impediment to it. I have my reasons for not making sense.
* * * * *
The gag reflex kicked in, and I vomited the water and the pills back onto the nurse’s uniform. I had already been marked down in the files as having taken my evening medication, so I was not offered the pills a second time.
* * * * *
i Johnson, Jenell. “The Skeleton on the Couch: the Eagleton Affair, Rhetorical Disability and the Stigma of Mental Illness.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 40.5 (2010): 459-478. Web. 5 Jan. 2015.
iii Prendergast, Catherine. “On the Rhetorics of Mental Disability.” Embodied Rhetorics: Disability in Language and Culture. Ed. James C. Wilson and Cynthia Lewiecki-Wilson. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2001. 45-60. Print.
Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion—broadly speaking—of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.
This is great! Thank you for sharing. 🙂
Thanks uprising. 🙂
This bit made me laugh:
” I preferred the assessment of a seemingly lesser stigma, the diagnosis that supplants Frighteningly Insane with Harmlessly Incapable.”
One of the best things I’ve ever read here.
Thanks! I’m glad the humor was appreciated.
A wonderful essay – thanks for publishing this!
Thanks Will 🙂
Wow, you’ve got talent…keep writing, I want more :).
Thanks, B. I really appreciate the encouragement 🙂
I agree, a fabulous piece. As I was reading it, I thought, this guy will be a famous writer some day. And, as a fellow artist, I say kudos to the creatively maladjusted. We’re living in the land of the Lords of the Make Believe Maladies. And in this “time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.” Keep writing, you have a gift.
This is very moving, and the best deconstruction of stigma that I’ve ever read. Thank you – I will re-read this many times.
Thanks for sharing. I am truly grateful to you for writing about your experience on MIA. I found it liberating to be able to accept that I don’t understand my daughter’s experience of ‘catatonia’
Your words elicited profound memories of being with her when she was enveloped in silence and stillness, simply being. When she lost the ability to speak, eat, drink, go to the bathroom, close her eyelids, etc. our first reaction was panic. We took her to the ER where she was quickly admitted and hooked her up to all kinds of life support gadgets. We were told by a psychiatrist that in former times, catatonic people simply died. We believed them.
The medical doctors tried to convince us that the high level of medically appropriate treatment that my daughter was receiving was proof that we live in a more compassionate era. Friends dropped by with flowers and her psychiatrist even played the guitar for my daughter. I thought things were looking up. One day, the doctor walked into her room and indicated that the most appropriate treatment for our daughter was shocking her with electricity and that it was “less toxic” than medication. But shocking our precious daughter seemed so barbaric, that the only shock that was delivered that day was the shock of two parents waking up out of a spell from years of being conditioning to trust medical authorities on any medical matters beyond our understanding.
They don’t have a clue, my mind started to shout! With this realization, I lost all desire to uphold the facade of knowing what my daughter is experiencing or the desire to instantly trust those who purport to know what she is experiencing just because they have a medical degree and I don’t.
The facade of ‘compassion’ quickly wore off and they moved her back into the locked psych unit and started business as usual which was force feeding her a cocktail of benzo’s, mood stabilizer, and neuroleptics without a clue as to the role that her previous cocktail of mind altering drugs (and acutre withdrawal from them) may have played into her catatonia in the first place. I am convinced that the doctors are often madder than their patients but they just don’t know it or admit it.
My daughter taught that to suspend judgement and enjoy silence and darkness is OK. Silence can be very healing. My daughter once communicated with me using clicks over the phone and I was touched and grateful for every click. I think another MIA author has written about selective mutism and I am dying to look it up.
The thing that I enjoyed the most about your article was going so deeply into the issue of stigma. Great work. I think the authors on MIA are bringing an important light to our mad world. Thank you for simply being.
I posted my reply below before reading your comment . I always read your comments painful as they are . I know both of us believe there needs to be an underground railroad especially for your daughter and so many others. That no one has been able to figure out how to help free your daughter if she wishes and find a place and resources for her to safely process her ordeal with out being again captured by psych authorities is a measure of the sorry state of effective opposition to psychiatry’s powerful bootheel over us . Perhaps besides anti-psychiatry there needs to be a guerrilla war conducted against the tortures psychiatry wields upon human beings .
Maybe deep thinker’s like Kit can offer suggestions. I believe answers are already available but unfunded unorganized scattered in a number of places within an impoverished population of people justifiably in fear for their own survival. I don’t have enough answers but I know inactivity grows fear. And yet right action is needed.
United we stand divided we fall.
Your sheer brilliance, courage , description and observation take words to a level they seldom reach. I know for certain you have written about real experience because so much reminds me of times in my life mostly past , but stigma and my words taken by family as no sense still ongoing and I’m 68 years old. I could never of had the courage to write about the states you describe . While in institutions I would have have been afraid they would force electro shock me again and again .
As for me looking back , the cause was an awareness at a very young age of the existence of so many mean and harmful and ignorant and dangerous and deceitful people with power . Also betrayal trauma . But mainly mercury poisoning from dental silver amalgams in reality 53% MERCURY. I don’t believe I would have been institutionalized repeatedly if I had not been mercury poisoned.
You for real are at the very least a greatly talented writer and if this was Japan even on the basis of this one piece they would have to declare you a National Treasure . For us you are. Thank You !
I also think for me the combo of mercury and lobotomizing neuroleptics like thorazine and halidol and the constant underlying fear of worse tortures ahead give new meaning to being beside ones self.
Spot on…best read on MIA!
Took me back into my head to eloquently explain some previous time warps.
But I don’t exactly see mental illness or a mentally ill person. I see somebody who has been subjugated to mental illness concepts (including a hefty dose of destructive and consequential social judgments).
Didn’t you know there WAS a great collapse?
There was an atmospheric collapse in 2008. I myself experienced it. I fractured, shattered and collapsed. It was a process that occurred over a few years or so. I was just like you, practically catatonic. Speaking very minimally, my body would seize and I became like a statue. I drifted back and forth from being in my body and being out of it. I preferred to be out because returning to my body, I knew the poverty of the flesh quite well.
It takes time to reassemble, and process it all.
The thing about it is that I’d been talking about the collapse since it happened. It would be “nonsense” to people who had no idea what I was talking about. To them, I was nothing but a crazy person. Looney tunes, a tin-foil hat wearer, a crack pot … and all the rest of that ignorant, immature garbage.
I knew about the collapse years before I found the “voice of authority”, who would prove me correct: http://science.nasa.gov/science-news/science-at-nasa/2010/15jul_thermosphere/
Those people at NASA have absolutely no idea how the atmospheric collapse impacted and effected human life. Most people have no idea.
Earth and humanity have been through a whole lot in the past decade, and in the past century.
I knew that many of my crises and experiences were connected to the earth and cosmological environment. I eventually discovered heliobiology http://encyclopedia2.thefreedictionary.com/Heliobiology
and then this jewel: http://www.thewisemag.com/astrology/solar-activities-and-us-part-three
You fit the bill, perfectly. You’re sensitive, artistic, personal, communicative, and socially experienced and aware (I’m speaking in regard to this monster we have to live with: the psychiatric, mentally ill thing).
It takes some time to learn but if you shift your attention to the environment and spirituality, you’ll start to understand pretty quickly how the whole mechanism works.
After the collapse, the spiritual community began talking about earth and humanity’s ascension. To be honest, the only ascension I know of occurs in death. Heh. But the way they talk about it, earth and humanity are entering into another field of vibrational energy.
If you explore the spiritual community, you’ll probably find a lot of information there that will make a whole lot of sense to you (but it won’t make sense to the rigid, inflexible, sterile minded).
Ascension Symptoms Survival Guide
I hope you find something useful and beneficial.
I don’t understand. One of the articles you cited (heliobiology) has the following disclaimer: “The following article is from The Great Soviet Encyclopedia (1979). It might be outdated or ideologically biased.” Huh?
The warning / disclaimer is more about the encyclopedia than the information, or seemingly so.
The third edition of the Encyclopedia, edited by Academician A. M. Prokhorov, was published in 1969-1978. It consisted of 30 volumes (the 24th volume included two books, the second one entirely devoted to the USSR). Circulation of the final volumes reached 600 000 copies. In the third edition, much attention was paid to the philosophical problems of natural sciences, physical and chemical sciences, and mathematical methods in various branches of knowledge.
Here’s a NASA link about heliobiology: http://ntrs.nasa.gov/search.jsp?R=19740020484
Abstract: Heliobiology studies the influence of changes in solar activity on life. Considered are the influence of periodic solar activity on the development and growth of epidemics, mortality from various diseases, the functional activity of the nervous system, the development of psychic disturbances, the details of the development of microorganisms and many other phenomena in the living world.
Heliobiology is not well known and apparently, not well studied. But it should be an eye opener to all, just that it exists.
Nonsense doesn’t actually mean “not sense”. In a literary sense, it merely functions on the very edge of sense. Reductio ad absurdum (Candide), satire, and parody all have aspects associated with literary nonsense. They all seem to be nonsense, but underneath it all, a carefully hidden message can be found. Nonsense deliberately makes light of a story while encouraging the reader to pay attention… ask questions.. think.
My point is, you may not be talking nonsense at all. You may just lack an intelligent audience who is willing to hear.
After reading this, so many things humbly come to mind, “to thy own self be true,” I truly understand that phrase now. This poetic story was enlightening for me, I’m not accustomed to reading works by creative artists, but this has uplifted me. Yet, I confess, I hope to someday break this yoke, my “chemical straightjacket,” bestowed upon me by the purveyors of these insidious drugs, so that my personal narrative can go on, and I am no longer held hostage by their effects. But in the meantime, I must submit to my circumstances.