Monday, October 25, 2021

Comments by Jane Engleman

Showing 46 of 46 comments.

  • The argument is that recovery from depression is not possible. American doctors have never seen it. African, Indian, Chinese and Navajo gurus, mothers and shamans have failed to produce an elegant checker box survey of results. You really need a three-month double-blind study of thirty MediAid patients needing a room to get in out of the rain.

    So, if USC wastes money on heavy steroids to allow the liver not to be rejected, I will sink into gross despair, kill myself and waste the $350,000 provided by a medical investment company to save worthy American citizens.

    But I kind of think I have avoided a bomb. Could I trust a medical pro with a knife and a second-hand liver whose primary interest in me is his career and the financing on the school bill?

    My healers tell me the liver can be restored. I have not met a single kind academic on the Keck USC Transplant Team. Our Medical Schools so frown on people who can use both logic and compassionate imagination. Thinkers can be such stinkers. Better to robot. Cut and laser with precision.

    I look at the offering as snake oil. I am my own experiment. Snake oil was a powerful medicine brought in by the Chinese who worked on the Western Railroads. It got a terrible reputation after European pharmaceutical salesmen counterfeited it.

    I’m foggy. My life is beautiful. I am exhausted and suffering terribly. I love the dance. I love my friends. I love my art. My life is beautiful. I am dying. Aren’t you?

  • Yeah. A lot of questions. Why did the county defund The Village? Why, when you talk to a psychiatrist do they glaze when you simply point out that psychiatric “treatment” is not science, but subjective guesswork based on ignorance of how a child develops and is trained? Why are psychologists financially supported for their masculine education and expertise, where mothers have not been since the Mayflower?

    How has America come to accept this cultural blindness? I can only posit that it is insistence on force, assimilation and the resulting isolation from an education that is both compulsory and originating at a single source, that is political and financial “power,” which are counterfeit powers. The discreditation of alchemy, Christianity, witchcraft and snake oil did not come about because we could learn nothing from them, but because desperate organizations chose to counterfeit them for profit.

    So. What do I have? How do I encourage my friends to want to stay alive long enough to network and grow to clarity, community and hope? Slaughter doctors? Rant?

    There are a few threads left of the tatters of the “American” experiment:
    We have free press as long as we use the “internet” to provide greater one-on-one sharing of outside information and in-person healing.

    We have mothers learning how to network, do business and personal research in psychology outside of compulsory education and corporate nonthink.

    We have, even in the dark age of the new world, intellectuals, gardeners and builders who use their entire bodies to think and perceive, as opposed to study by sight. (STEM is a stick with no root or fruit without the feminine principle of loving experiential observation and the collaboration of associations of independent groups.)

    This is, as a poet, all I have to grab. And in L.A. County, Morrison is the first person I have met, after 12 years of hunt, with the power and the physical understanding to do this one thing: Coaching people burned, traumatized, disrespected, and left on the street by our founding fathers and their inbred European rationalism.

    We can do nothing, but Nothing does not feel Good. Why would I want to live in a city where no one wants to be alive? Or we can do what we can do, which is a great feeling of beauty, joy and encouragement. If we can light the pilot, we may be able to wash a few windows and provide showers in lieu of shock, awe and this psychotropic/opiod pandemic that has flooded across the world in the global “market.”

    I don’t care you call me a pretty dreamer. I love my life. I love our people. And after 54 years suffocating in the murk of a gyrating brown-bag labyrinth, I learned never to look a single gift seed in the mouth, long as it is mustard. I collect them for spring.

  • Thank you for adding to my perspectives with “A Dose of Sanity.” I have been focused on cultural oppression. I am interested in social disrespect for physical operating systems in different brains. I want to bring attention to how specific experiences change how we see things, and so, how we act.

    But I am sometimes so focused on combatting American behavioral eugenics and forced compliance by drugging, shock and economic isolation that I can forget how complex we are; the brain is a bodily organ (you cannot heal the mind by killing the body); the body is a brain (cognition is “felt” in every nerve and muscle).

    Your work and understanding is extremely important in adding insight to the collective conscious. As a woman with some German ancestry, I reflect on that minority of Germans who went underground to save children and seniors and ordinary professionals sacrificed by that majority who did not care to take responsibility for their own sin and suffering. These activists fought in secret, often alone, to save one or two people at a time.

    We are not alone. We have Mad in America. And I hope you will check out It is a personal dream come true for us in L.A. County. Keep building your knowledge, network and understanding. We may together introduce racial and radical democracy into American society, if not the government.

  • I am so grateful to MAD IN AMERICA that they publish the work of survivors who are poets and storytellers as well as scientists. So many American survivors are now finding full professionalism and acceptance in their chosen fields beyond “peer support” due to seeds planted by Jane Adams, Sojourner Truth, Dorothea Dix and our colleagues in advocacy since 1963.

    We can never quit planting, harvesting and storing the riches of these seeds. They are our happy grandchildren and why our lives were lived in such unmitigated suffering and infinite beauty.

  • I have a close friend who has survived childhood encephalitis, sexual predation and total neglect due to generational trauma. She tells me continuously that my distrust of any American “mental health” professional is unwise. She relies on psychotropics.

    So, I try to be open. I am now a firm supporter of Heart Forward LA. I have met Kerry Morrison on Zoom and have been heard, along with six other colleagues. Yet, her staff includes herself, a business executive, a psychologist with the LA Sheriff, a NAMI rep and a DMH executive. How can we possibly trust them? But I don’t see any other option. Heathe Wilcox is dead.

    Survivors of trauma are dying of neglect, suicide, weather and “natural causes” caused by prolonged overuse of debilitating psychotropics.

    I have hepatic encephalopathy. It is the opinion of Dr. Patrick Baumgart, after one appointment and based on my anxiety after two years of medical dismissal and psychiatric force, that I am not eligible for transplant.

    But Heather Wilcox died of American scientific ignorance and social neglect. Sam, you and I are apparently alive. We must have faith in love. We must have faith in forgiveness. I will fall over if I stop moving.

  • In my book, “The Last Run,” I dramatized the disaster of the American Dustbowl, which was such a brilliant illustration of the Great Depression. Our people refused to negotiate or friend the people living in Oklahoma. Instead we used force to obliterate them, and when our killing was held in check by others, we offered “reservations” or assimilation to the Indigenous.

    Now I am a student of our people in Los Angeles, which has the largest urban population of native people pressed from the East Coast through Oklahoma into L.A. I say “our people” because we come from the same world if not the same human seed.

    The suffering of our family, of my grandparents, is continuously healed through me by the community that could have been destroyed or made uselessly bitter by our unmanaged trauma and refusal to accept mercy every morning.

    These lives matter because they teach all of us to get up again, as Joy Harjo, John Trudell, Peter MacDonald, as Quincy Jones, Maya Angelou and Amanda Gorman. They rise to dignity, intelligence and competent compassion. As a member of the most predatory tribe in the world, does that not give me some hope that I can be good?

  • Some Americans who accept their symptoms as “schizophrenia” fully support psychotropic use. My questions are:
    1. Why did Heather Wilcox die?
    2. Do the drugs restore body/mind/culture integration, or cover these over? In other words, we accept wifi and electromagnetic energy, even though they are unseen. Could the collective conscious be a fact, could living energies communicate intergenerationally and geographically, as researchers posit after years of study with tools still foreign to Germany and America?
    3. If we re-introduced feminine culture and Indigenous sexual integration into white America, would some of the rage and terror of these voices become friendly? These might be done with depth psychology (the original primary task of women/artists) and with poetry, music and mindful gardening and eating.
    4. Would the APA ever become willing to regulate themselves or must it be up to survivors to hold them in check? Who is profiting from this willful ignorance? And isn’t the arrogance of eugenic isolation a mental illness? Should it be drugged or healed?

  • The medical profession is seeing these and are squirming. They attempt to yank us out by the scruffs of our ACEs.

    All change is temporary. The jazz wanders from bass to electronic keyboard to drum to the poetry. But have we not all won before? Do we not see the meaning now of liberty if not the manifestation? As solo instruments, we can choose our timbres, raucous and grate, or syllabant and throb. The infinity, the beauty, is found in the jam. And I prefer days and days together in music festivals than a week in a trench.

    But music is self evident. Follow your own bliss.

  • Sam, I feel a softening in your voice, a submission. But I am not afraid of failure anymore. I am not afraid of fire. And I am not afraid of my own terror and anxiety.

    I see our human purpose as simply the mastery of competent compassion. If my capillaries bleed out, if my spleen ruptures, if I go into encephalitic coma, I know the effort of competent compassion will continue to spark and flow throughout the Body Mind through the sparks each neuron takes in, develops and sends. But I am not dead yet.

    And, thank God, I see you are still sparking and kicking. Live on, write on. We only win a war at a time. But the War we CAN win is our own arrogance and ignorance. And mercy rains.

  • Thank you for the link. People will be reading this. They can cut us, delete us, and gaslight us as long as our solo voices are squeaked in a cubicle with a psychiatrist fat with statistics, credentials and government funding.

    Never be in a room alone with a psychiatrist or psychologist you do not know. Buddy systems are mandatory for anyone out late in the dark.

  • I have just lost a friend, artist activist survivor, Heather Wilcox. After being pumped with psychotropics in lieu of safe housing, physical coaching and understanding, she went to a hospital in East Los Angeles for bloodtests for anemia. Her heart could not take the strain and she died of a heart attack. 53 years old. This is the fourth friend I have lost in community “mental health treatment.” If you are a fighter, help us fight, one enemy at a time. If you are a lover, help us fight, one enemy at a time.

  • Do you know of an advocacy group outside of religion that is doing this already? Or is there a religion that is doing this that is simply not networking with advocates?

    There are programs in Los Angeles that are doing wonders in social justice. These seem to be isolated pockets, without communication with trained professional System survivors.

    I am not personally most interested in prevention. Prevention is healthy parenting within small networks of communities which include universal food, clinics and an education not based on national propaganda. Others are working toward this.

    I think I am primarily a teacher (I hope I am not simply an academic theorist.) I want to have a specific focus on a specific group, which is those who have been so battered by social, economic and psychological trauma they are finding it difficult to function.

    So, first we must train survivors who have somehow bumpedly arrived at some place of stability, kindness and wisdom, who are attempting to build independent lives with a view to influencing hope in others. I think we must be REMOVED from our dysfunctional system for a short time and then returned to practice in the community, not just a “Peer Supporters,” but as business leaders, teachers, artists, farmers, parents and scientists.

    Some of these, however, could go on back to school for credentials in the mental health system. Some could start rural two-year retreats for trauma survivors who could be matriculated on to advocacy training. This may seem too fast; it took us 30-40 years to become independent. But if we can move from an advocacy arts training center into a system of networking and support in the community, we could sustain the hope, the cultural diversity and the furthering of wisdom. We really have to return to kindergarten those who have been thrown into the bloody arena with no kindergarten.

  • Wow, thank you both, Ian Parker and Ayurdhi Dhar, for such a lifeline! We must be connecting to people doing the labor of social justice, dishes, mops and computer literacy instruction.

    Is there an actual place yet, a short-term physical “asylum” for psychiatric survivors? I need to rest and cannot find the in-depth caring and solitude I think I need in order to move on and continue my work. I would like to find a place where I could discuss and research the experiences of peers, particularly in alternative cultures than white America.

  • Pretty pictures. Practically, if we could find funding for a small pilot Advocacy Arts School, do you know of a competent peer administrator or a business executive to run it? Are there compassionate coaches with lived experience (ACE’s, Adverse Clinical Experience) already trained in various educational and cultural backgrounds? Are you aware of a thinktank of grandmothers who might be willing to come teach or workshop? I feel far out of the loop, and running out of time.

  • Do not stop researching and writing. I am reading in a great deal of pain. I began “treatment” in 1980 for chronic depression and “mood swings” (emotional dysregelation possibly due to genetic emotional sensitivity but in conjunction with prolonged psychological and social violence). I threw myself into the European/American System in Los Angeles for help.

    Peer reviewed research is saving me. It is attended by an unwavering flood of education and personal experience of survivors of the initial trauma of oppression in addition to the overwhelm of “treatment resistant” results provided by the “education” of old boys.

    This is probably old hat to you; these articles are a beginning for me. But I seem to be dying young now. I intend to live another forty years, but the medical establishment is saying not; the damage is done. They are saying I did it. Own it. I am not.

    Please write on. I began worship of professors and doctors before the decade when CBT, statistics and studies had the funding to become ineffective in their little boxes, and irrelevant. They have not destroyed my life, but have caused a suffering that was never necessary in its completeness. This eugenic education has caused the suicides of George Foster, Catherine Foster, Frank Foster, Opal Antonito, Ernie Curly, Devin Lange and Stewart Lupton.

    They are keeping the people I “grew up” with in a CMHC without families, independent income or positive career choices. I struggle to even believe in God anymore. But I do. Have met Them. They are diligent, and kind, like you. Don’t ever stop.

  • I finally got a chance to print this article and read it through. It has brought me close to mania, not the wild North Atlantic hurricane on a floating plank (where thou shalt surely die, in nonsensical chaos of dismemberment in the society of psychological battering), but the Colorado River in a pontoon before the dam, dam, dam, dam, dam ( which is the intensity that incentivized me to want to begin the study of the Canyon in the first place).

    I am stunned by my disconnection and ignorance. Are there other Americans, some even white, some even descended from Germans, who are alive, who think like me, who have been diagnosed as “to be managed, drugged or allowed to simply decompose?”

    I am allowing myself to write the wild in the way I like to write. Somebody’s always saying I write purple. I am always having to dumb and muffle the violet or the blues. But it is the way I feel it. I think you have written the way it is. Thank you, Jesus, or whatever your Name is.

    Thank you for this forum, Mr. Whitaker. Thank you, Ms. Spencer. And thank you for this brilliant writing, Mr. Coates or The Writer. I wish I could express all the horizons I see through the holes in the white bones. I am again beginning to begin again. I am about to write another paragraph or a silly jingle this afternoon.

  • That’s it. There it is. The futile label, which can be so helpful as a conversation begun and a mute for actual meaning.

    I have had such immense difficulty talking about the experience of ‘realms of emotion’ labeled for me as “bipolar.” How stupid. How ignorant. How lame. The label is like going down to the beach with a bucket for water. If the water is over 70 degrees it is warm. If it is below that it is cold. Now we have decided we like our water to be 70 degrees. If the ocean from sea to shining sea is 70 degrees, we are healthy. Functioning. We know the ocean. We took its temperature. We like our middle sea. And we are now undertaking to address the problem in Washington D. C. We know everything that is necessary to know about he movement of waters on the planet. Here is the evidence-based proof. It’s in the bucket.

  • Man, Someone Else! This is brilliant! If I had more than fifteen minutes of war in me in the morning, I’d be out in a march on these lines. I see myself more as a roller of bandages with a big pot of chicken posole’. If you can fight, FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT.

    If you can hold an android in your lap, stroke it gently. If you can keep the kids back in the yard, out of the roll of the bullets, do that. If you can paint heiroglyphics in the underpass, do that. And if you can dance as an extended family out in the droning, be the dancers. We might not survive the excitement, but it’s a little joy in the hard, hard oppression of love-deprived generals.

  • I wish, outside of this funky foggy, I would be sued by the big guys, or shot as so many broken people have been in L.A. Just to have my little say.

    I get up in the morning amd they haven’t come after me yet, to force a confrontation. I wake up, HUH, and I’m still alive and unbothered. So I get my coffee and I have my little say.

  • We’ve seen this collective dignified crazy overturned in many countries over the centuries… Why are the little tyrants so filled with terror? Problem is, we’ve seen strange flips: the Indians become the British/American, the Israelis become the Nazis, the Tutsis become the French, the slaves become Masters, and women become men.

    In art and poetry, we might study the ritual of the Tibetan and Navajo sandpaintings. We come into these prepared performances for healing in myth, design and color. But then they are carefully swept up to be discarded in a sacred place. Have they been destroyed forever?

    Everytime a Navajo Medicine Man brings the Beauty Way to his people, the world is re-created. The mandala might be a reminder we can have no other Gods than the God who loves us Everyday. Every time a woman has a baby, life is re-created. We are temporary, given the awesome experience of bottomless peace in the spark of our being together for a bit.

    Art and liturgy implode us into daily performance as revolution and war never will. We’ve got to keep fighting like crazy to be the cooks of Renaissance. One forgotten project, one burned tuna picnic, one smile at a time.

  • I have seen people screaming in a “hospital” given a lawn chair, a counselor and a cup of tea if they were connected, and other people (same age and education) screaming and strapped down, drugged and hauled out the back in a gurney if they didn’t have a Family.

    Really, in or out of it, the only hope we have as indigents and people with brands of skin or history is in the slowly developed professionalism of peer advocacy. And I’m telling you, sometimes rebuilding a Self to become a warrior out of a stomped-on tulip takes time and a lot of InLightning.

  • Actually, I typing with all ten fingers again! I’m really not sure if my health improved; I was wiggly with sick terror of getting out of bed and getting out to my groups and work, buying into the look in the eyes of the ignorant, that I might be dying because of my own stupidity, trips and stubbornness. I had a terror of stroke or psychosis. But I have come to sit in a chat in a beautiful Community.

    Stubborness is a funky tool, given us by prolonged terror. We hang on to survival in freezing waters. Later when they try to pry our bony fingers off the gunwales, they seem frozen solid. We really have to learn to let go. It is the stubborness that saved us, until help came.

    I’m thinking my help has arrived, in shamans and therapists, horses and the colors in vegetables and brown rice. Anyway, I might die today. But then, anybody might, too. I’m dizzy all the time with a weary cough, but I am still writing, going to my groups and dancing my brains out. I can’t begin to describe the ecstacy of life in the terror of the rollercoaster on high steel.

  • I really have no idea if the system has changed. We were always terrified that they were “coming after us” to cut us off from MediCal or SSDI if we made too much in a single month. Some friends had their funds cut within a month so they suddenly couldn’t pay the rent. I hope it is improving.

    I haven’t been bothered lately by fear; I know I can survive, with friends, on the street. I’m not so fearful of discomfort or oppression. Maybe the County government works now, or maybe I just don’t care enough to worry. If your community will not help you, help yourself to the community.

  • It is endlessly curious to me that I can still write, clause after clause. Writing is no problem. I think I am on a track developed for survival in second grade; part of my brain holds a space to write.

    Everything else is a muddle. I can’t cope the tech; I panic and collapse every time I have to see a doctor; I see those doors sliding behind me and I can’t breathe. So it is not only the problem of the current clinic; there might be competence somewhere. I only hope I can continue to wax Buddhist, accept the love of Jesus in my life, come into the awareness of the Infinity of Allah and the Creativity of White Shell Woman, in time to be open again to a human healer, so that I can get these last projects done.

  • Bet you have a story of your own. It doesn’t look like we are going to replant with a tidal wave of these stories, but a constant system of steady irrigation on the local level. Our hope, I hope, is to be clear and connected, to be part of the flow from Source to gardening to market. And that is not just writing and art. Our story is whoever we are, the products and projects we finish, because we are compelled to by the curiosity or the fires in our lives. Do the work and take days off to dance with the planet.

  • I can’t do “education.” Don’t know anything about Law or if it exists in the wild wild west. So I am looking to the “fringe.” I am a goose that lays eggs, looking for a farmer and a marketplace. For myself, this means both handmade textual art (books, boxes and 3D hangings), graphic design in publishing, and dramatic group performance. I figure if I connect to enough advocates, I’ll find some art professionals. What is your busy store?

  • Just reading this for the first time. Thank you. Thank YOU. I hope we have not sustained enough damage to our body minds not to inundate desiccated gardens with the fertile shit of new poetics. New shit here. New fresh manure over there. No one person has the organic shit to cover the endless plains. Disemminate the sustenance. The abundance. By tractor, video or sermon.

  • Who are the “talented folks.” Where is “around here?” I have a friend in Washington State with whom I would like to work on a project, an experimental play written and performed by advocates. We are calling the pregnancy “The Lemongrass Tea Project.” I am very sick, but find I can get up several times a week to get to rooms to talk, talk, talk, and I can still write, write, blog, cough, fart, write, type. If you know advocates with the skill to stay focused, and some craftpersonship, have them get in touch. I have been isolated in a County Cell called “community mental health.” Ha!

  • Thanks for the encouragement. I am going to read it all. I am seeking professional performance poets/writers to develop dramatic gatherings in the L.A. area. I have no connections and no credentials and no funding. I have a plan, a purpose, and a determination. I have also built an abiding belief in increments, syllables and iambs. I am learning to work with others. Do you have a website and a list of books or videos?