A foggy memory. Part I

I suspect when it comes to matters of the mind we are all laymen and layladies.

I do not possess the expertise to explain to you what mental illness is and how it can be accurately diagnosed. I cannot explain to you what mental illness is or how it can be successfully treated, medically or otherwise.

I do not know that mental illness exists. . . I wonder why do psychiatrists have so much power over the vulnerable individuals that they supposedly serve?

I believe that mental illness exists.

I know madness exists. Does insanity exist? For sure. I was a lunatic not so long ago, and it is possible I still am. Even the deluded ‘sectioned’ maniac that I was, knew.

What is a mind?

A FOGGY MEMORY. Part 1.

“A few nights after Christmas day, 2016 A.D. I knew, within one hour of being part of the general population, of a locked hospital ward, that madness is real.

The first paranoid madman I talked to, took me aside, away from view of other inmates. He informed me that he was a psychic ninja, my mentor and guide.

He focused my attention towards a sweaty greasy man, wearing a long winter coat, in the well-heated dining/recreation room. I was told the sweaty greasy man was concealing a knife and the psychic ninja also insisted I would be a dead man before morning, if I didn’t follow his martial instructions exactly. My mentor showed me how to effectively attack the knife-wielding psychopath before the psychopath attacked me first.

I proceeded to not take the psychic ninja’s advice.

Petrified, I was hiding, almost uncontrollably shaking, in my sleeping quarter, in a room with 3 other beds. (I guess they are called sleeping quarters for a reason).

Eventually it was smoke time.

Smoke time was for 10-15 minutes every hour, on the hour, until the night staff arrived and ushered us to bed, with biscuits and squash, not long after our nightly ‘medications’.

I was really scared during my first smoke time.

The knife wielding psycho was staring at me with a murderous smile. I took a large deep drag from my roll-up, and I gathered every atom of insanity that my lungs could find and blew a fog of madness into the darkest of skies, high above the peachy artificial light of the yard.

Then, for a long few minutes, I was the sanest man on earth.

I assessed the situation and observed the psychic ninja pacing up and down, stopping, doing an impression of a badly trained middle-aged ‘karate kid’ with a ponytail, having a deep conversation with his ancient samurai spirits guide I assume. He would growl and threaten anybody that came within six feet of him. The knife-wielding psycho was not staring at me at all, he was just looking in my direction, trying to get my attention with a friendly, welcoming smile. He was a psycho, but he was not carrying a knife.

I was a few moments away from making my first friend. He showed me the ‘ropes’, along with a young ginger nut, an attempted self-murderer with a pair of NHS-issue crutches and very heavily bandaged legs.” Frank Broadhurst, 15th March 2020 A.D.

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