My Dear Psychiatrists

Aberrant Selected begins with the short story, My Dear Psychiatrist, and it is a fictionalised rendering of the psychiatrist, whom I named Dr Bea, whom began me on the path to a full remission with my schizophrenia. Dr Bea, during those consults, said very little and let me do all the talking, asking questions, and answering them myself. Thus, today's post is about what the average psychiatrist consult is like, at least in my own experience.

     From watching Frasier most people probably think that a psychiatrist consult is heavy going, discussing sublimating perverse feelings, strategies to obviate Oedipus complexes,etc, but in my own case this is certainly not the case. With Dr Bea each consult was like catching up with a good friend I hadn't seen in a few weeks and having a good natter with him, albeit with me doing most of the talking. This method has obviously proved fruitful as, in combination with my much needed medications, I have finally arrived in a full remission with my mental illness.

     My current psychiatrist is Dr Julian Short (he said it was okay if I was his real name) and he is the best psychiatrist that I have had. Once again, like with Dr Bea, consults with Dr Short are like catching up with an old friend except that Dr Short is more talkative. Throughout the conversation he will often give me various pointers, tips, or revelations achieved through psychiatric study. He also is a published writer (An Intelligent Life) and some of each consult is spent in discussing our writing experiences. He is always glad to see me and has got into the habit, when he announces he is ready to begin the consult, that he is glad I've arrived as I 'bring sanity into his day.' Dr Short I have also fictionalised in a short story, My God Complex, which has been published in issue fourteen of Tincture Journal. More of my God complex next week. Also, and once again, if you'd like to listen to an interview of me on Radio Skid Row, a Sydney community radio station, being interviewed about my writing and my mental illness, just click on the following link: http://bit.ly/1uj4Q8s

     To finish up, if any of you out there feel you need to see a psychiatrist but feel daunted by the prospect of an emotionally draining visit, there is no need to worry. Talking with a psychiatrist I have found to be a very casual affair and he/she soon becomes a real friend, but a very intelligent and learned friend. I look forward to my consults with Dr Short and it was he who pronounced me to finally be in a full remission with schizophrenia. I am sure you will enjoy them too, if you feel you may need some help. 

My Much Needed Medications

Aberrant Selected would have been impossible to publish, let alone write, if it were not for my anti-psychotic medications. It is because of these medications that I am in a full remission with schizophrenia. And, by the way, a full remission is different from a cure. Being in remission means I still have the disease but am symptom free due to regularly taking the meds. A cure for schizophrenia, and mental illness in general, is still impossible with today's state of medical knowledge.

     I take two meds for the schizophrenia: Flupenthixol, 20 mg, and Olanzapine, 7.5 mg. The Flupenthixol is an intramuscular injection and at the dose I have it it has mood elevating properties. I have to take it every two weeks and for almost all of those two weeks I am in a fantastic mood, able to cope with almost anything that modern life throws at me. I also have the privilege of injecting myself, a privilege not given to all schizophrenics, in my experience.

     The Olanzapine I have to take every night, usually around 7 pm, and it helps to keep my brain chemistry stable. This medication has the side effect of making one sleep and I usually take it two hours before retiring for the night. This side effect is actually a boon as, like most schizophrenics, I have trouble falling asleep, as well as awaking for the day.

     It took me about ten years to find the right meds, at the right dose, and it is because of them that I am able to function as a productive member of society. Aberrant Selected would not have been written without these meds and the meds also make the writing process very enjoyable, or, rather, more enjoyable. If you'd like to listen to a radio interview of me on Radio Skid Row, a Sydney community radio station, talking with Jessica Revill about the writing process and my schizophrenia, click on the following link: http://bit.ly/1uj4Q8s

     All this being said, a lot of the characters in Aberrant Selected do not take their recommended medications, believing themselves not really mentally ill and therefore not needing to take them. This attitude is very, very common amongst the mentally ill, and was my own attitude for almost a decade. But unlike in real life not taking their meds doesn't adversely affect the characters; another property of Aus. The main thing that got me to take the meds was receiving safe, affordable housing (I chose to be homeless between the ages of 22 and 27. I have published a book about this positive experience (yes, it was a positive experience, largely so) entitled King Street Blues and it is available from the Amazon website as an ebook or as a paperback. Other ebook and paperback options are available from www.lulu.com.) and I am religious about taking the medications when they're due as I do not want to lose my flat and once again become homeless, largely positive as the experience was.

     Lastly, I am very fortunate to receive these medications at a subsidised rate and is another reason why I am able not only to afford them but, always having a subsidised supply, can take them on time. I often gratefully think of the Australian government subsidising these meds, which in turn allow me to lead a productive life, and to fulfill my life's dream of being a writer. God bless Australia (and Aus)!

Meanwhile, in Aus

Most of the settings in Aberrant Selected are set in the fictional land of Aus, Australia in a parallel Universe. I decided several years ago to set all of my fiction in this fictional land because it is both very close and very far. It is very close in that I have complete control over its landscape, but very far in that it shares some of the same unbending rules as Australia; the speed of light, for instance, is the same in both Aus and Australia. But the central reason I have chosen this setting is that in case there are any errors in the text, be it scientific, logical, historical, etc, then the seeming error can be explained away as a property of this fictional land.
     That being said, there is very little description of this fictional landscape, preferring instead to concentrate on the emotional landscapes of the characters in the stories. And what descriptions of places there are tend to be located to inner city Sydney where I lived during most of my twenties (am currently in my forties.) Some of these inner city suburbs are spelled slightly differently from the real locations. And speaking of 'emotional landscapes,' my characters are also very, very rarely physically described. This is for the simple reason that I have always found character descriptions intrusive, tending to quickly read over them. One of the things I don't like about Dickens is his tendency to describe his characters right down to the size of their pores. Very annoying. This sparsity of description does not seem to have impacted on the quality of my tales for the common refrain from reviewers for my published novel, This Mirror in Me, is that the characterisation is excellent and all of the characters are well drawn. You can read the reviews on the Amazon site.
     Lastly, I plan to continue setting my fiction in Aus, both for the fact that it can explain away any textual errors, and as a response to the real Australia. I very much enjoy living here and this, I hope, is expressed in my tales. It also provides a high element of certainty and familiarity to my literature.  Vive la difference!

Those Voices in My Head

In my experience the average person thinks that those voices that the schizophrenic hears in their head are coming from a mystical source, that they are in tune with some fundamental truth. This concept is very common in popular songs. But, in fact, the opposite is true. Those voices are very negative, spending their time speaking derogatorily about the hearer. This is interspersed with hours upon hours of loud screaming in one's head. Sometimes these negative voices lead to suicide, the hearer having had enough of feeling absolutely worthless.
     That being said, the voices that I used to hear in my head (of which I have no longer heard for about eleven years) were very positive. They were an androgynous choir that only I could hear and we spent the time in talking of fundamental philosophy, science, and art. At their most prolific I heard these voices when I experienced five years of homelessness, unmedicated, between the ages of twenty-two and twenty-seven (I'm currently forty-four years old) and they kept me amused and entertained throughout the boredom of those five poverty stricken years. And those times when the boredom became simply too much, the voices would suggest I go window shopping, or have a 'smoke and a joke,' or beg up some money for some comfort food, like a shepherd's pie, or a hamburger, or some hot chips with gravy. I often said to my friends at this time that having voices in my head was absolutely fantastic, like always being with friends. They always thought that that was very funny. When I told a former psychiatrist I used to consult, the subject of 'My Dear Psychiatrist', which opens Aberrant Selected, he conjectured that it probably wasn't necessary to treat for such well meaning voices, as the voices were actually a boon, rather than a bane, looking after the hearer and making them feel very special and very much loved. I would tend to agree with this position as I have heard a few stories from psychiatric patients whom told of their friends who had committed suicide when their positive voices went away, the result of the anti-psychotic medication.
     My own voices did though have their negative side, tempting me to suicide for clumsily practising ancient magick (and I have had several serious suicide attempts.) But when these voices were being cruel they were largely being cruel to be kind, showing tough love, and this I understood at the time.
     I will finish up with something I should have mentioned in my previous post about illicit drugs and schizophrenia. Current psychiatric opinion is that marijuana triggers, but not causes, one's inherited schizophrenia. However, my current psychiatrist has travelled widely in Nepal, and elsewhere, where marijuana use is very common, but incidents of schizophrenia are very low. I suspect that this is the case because Western marijuana is mostly hydroponically grown, involving the use of many chemicals, whereas in Nepal it grows wild and is had for the picking out in the bush. The instructions on the hydroponic growth chemicals recommend flushing the crop with water only for four weeks before harvesting, to avoid ill health effects from the chemicals. Hydroponic marijuana growers do not do this though as it's four weeks when they're not making money.
     These days I no longer hear those positive voices but their caring nature, a rarity, is explored well in Aberrant Selected, positively portraying them, but please don't think that this is the norm. I do not miss the voices, except occasionally, and to this day I am still very much grateful that their sudden departure hasn't caused me to suicide. I simply love life too much for that.

Illicit Drugs and Schizophrenia

Today I'm going to talk about the prevalence of illicit drug use among schizophrenics. Most people think that drugs like marijuana, amphetamines, heroin, etc. will undoubtedly cause schizophrenia, or any other mental illness. And while it's true that drug use is high amongst the mentally ill, psychiatrists still do not know if the mental illness leads to the drugs, or the drugs lead to the psychiatric hospital. I suspect it's a little from column A and a little from column B.
     And in many cases illicit drugs are actually beneficial to schizophrenics. In my many admissions to psychiatric hospitals over the years I have met a lot of my fellow schizophrenics who smoked marijuana in order to quell the voices in their head. And these voices needed to be subdued, spending all their time making derogatory remarks about them, interspersed with loud, persistent screaming. The nurses too, in these hospitals, recognised the health benefits of marijuana for some of their patients and turned somewhat of a blind eye to their indulgence whilst in hospital.
     But by far the worst drug for any of the mentally ill is the cigarette. About sixty percent to eighty percent of those mentally ill smoke cigarettes (http://www.tobaccoinaustralia.org.au/chapter-7-cessation/7-12-smoking-and-mental-health/), in Australia.but, again, psychiatrists are unsure as to why there is such a large prevalence. Whatever the reason(s), about fifty percent of many long time smokers die from their addiction
( http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/01/23/putting-a-number-to-smokings-toll/), whereas there have been no recorded deaths from marijuana use, a very common drug used among the mentally ill. Although, having said that, recent German research claims to have identified the first two such deaths; these findings have been seriously questioned however (http://time.com/10372/marijuana-deaths-german-study/).
     Aberrant Selected has many stories involving the mentally ill using and abusing drugs and, as in real life, portrays it as a love-hate relationship. I certainly do not glorify the drug use in the book but have tried to show that they have their place amongst some of society's most fragile. Let's hope that eventually cigarettes are outlawed and thus increase the survival rate of these delicately poised minds.

The Book's Preview

I thought I'd start off this blog with a preview of Aberrant Selected, with a short story that is fairly representative of the book. The book was also written to show a very humane side of mental illness. In my many admissions to psychiatric hospitals over about a decade I have found the mentally ill to be the most genuine people of all. They simply have no agenda(s) and are just wanting to continue quietly cruising on in the knowledge of their very unique secrets. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story below.

Hath Crowned Me

© Denis Fitzpatrick, 2015

I have chosen to be homeless in order to completely escape the Man: the Man and his unfair monies, the Man and his bigotry, in short, all the squalor that defines the Man. And it’s not so bad being unsheltered; I have welfare and my only real expense is food and water. I don’t smoke, I don’t drink alcohol, and I don’t take any drugs, not even the drugs I’m supposed to take, the ‘medications’ for the voices that only I can hear. These voices are great, keeping me uplifting and constant company, intellectually stimulating me, and they have been doing so since I moved onto the streets at the age of twenty-one, two years ago. I just got fed up one day, watching more news of war, and walked out of the share house I was in, never to return, vaguely looking for something permanent and noble. Mind you the voices had been preparing me for this adventure from about a week beforehand so it came as no surprise really when I watched myself walk out of that house in Chippendaille.

     The adventure is now really beginning in earnest for about three weeks ago, somewhere in nearby Redferne, in the wee hours of the morning, near a public park approached through a short avenue alternately planted with tall, ancient elms and shorter Banksia trees, the voices and I witnessed my creation of something from nothing but my dirty hair. A twig in fact, about six or so centimetres long, a few millimetres in diameter, and looking very, very brittle. The voices have now started calling me God, but I’ve asked them to not call me The Maker, in case the real God shows up. I can always tell Him I was just preparing the way for Him. But to this twig.

     Like I said, it was in the wee hours of the morning and I had decided on a bit of a ramble. I usually stay in a park and read throughout the day, and when it’s raining I find a bench under cover where all the shops are. I was simply strolling and happily chatting away with the voices when I felt one of my dreadlocks on my right suddenly, and inexplicably, tighten. Then some sort of droplet emerged and began bouncing against the top of my right cheek. It felt like it was giving me a kiss each time it bumped into me. I instinctively thought of it as Mistress Nature. Then the dreadlock began growing, quickly, but it felt harder than normal hair. It felt like wood. While the twig formed from my hair the droplet shape bumping against my cheek made each kiss more quickly, sometimes lingering over the odd one, and remaining separate from the twig, holding on with an intangible force.

     Seeing a small tree come up dead ahead of me, about fifteen paces away, I had almost already expected. The tree came out of the darkness and I made a mental note to walk into it. I did so to enforce my memory of having created the twig before I brushed passed the tree. It seemed a rational choice at the time.

     When I came out from under the canopy the twig was barely dangling from the dreadlock and the droplet shape had disappeared. I carefully took it in hand and looked at it under a streetlight.

     Yep, a twig, just like I felt, very dry and brittle. I had my backpack with me so I took out the tin of mints that I always keep there in case the boredom gets too much, emptied out the sweets, and carefully placed the twig inside the tin. A snug fit. I then wrapped the tin in a t-shirt and carefully placed it into the backpack. The question I have now for you, dear reader, is: hath Nature crowned me God? Are the voices right? Is in fact that twig my mighty sceptre? We’ll see.

*

It’s now been a year since those dark hours of the morning and I’m still out here, evading the Man. After having marvelled at the twig safely ensconced in my bag for several weeks I decided it was best to bury it. Thus I went looking for an abandoned house, with a nice garden hopefully. Squats I’ve mostly avoided because the Man patrols them. No-one bothers me here in the park. Anyway, I found an old, derelict house and safely committed the twig, in its tin, to the earth.

     The voices stopped calling me God after I buried the tin and also told me later that night that I would eventually return to the buried secret, unable to avoid the fate of its implications: I had created something out of nothing substantial, whilst feeling the growing joy of Mistress Nature. Does this indeed make me God? Quite likely, methinks.

     Anyway, something has reminded the voices and they have brought me back here. The abandoned house is being fixed up now but my little spot is safe. The treasure is again safe in my backpack and I am now on a bench in Prince Alfred Park, Redferne. It is here that I will begin my rule, it is here that my Godhead will step out into the world to claim it as entirely His own, wielding righteously through the wand of my special relic.

     My first act will be to loudly proclaim to the world the fact of God’s arrival. Everyone should know. I can also proclaim some of the secrets that the voices have revealed to me over the years. Let me just prepare myself.

*

What did I say about the Man? There I was, publically revealing my great news, and two police officers on pushbikes pulled up in front of me. And now I’m in Rozella Psychiatric Hospital. Again. In the locked ward. The nurses have allowed me only a small pencil and this notepad.

     Funny thing though is that some of the voices’ secrets I’ve revealed to the psychiatrists have impressed them unexpectedly. They invariably say that they have their own unique and appealing logic. But the doctors also assure me that I have no influence, that my conjectures must ultimately rely upon posterity. And that, reasonably, is that. I’m just a powerless homeless guy. I am doomed to obscurity, God or no, so I may as well give up my Godhead: it just isn’t worth the extra effort. Best to remain somewhere safe, reading, drawing maybe every now and then for a change.

     Suicide is an option of course. After all since I’m God, but still bound to be unnoticed, obscure, and of no influence, why go on, having so much power, but completely unable to use it? Who knows, maybe all that dammed power is bound to eventually break me and suicide is really the only option, especially considering that my Godhead is bound not to be acknowledged.

     But then if I commit suicide there will never be a chance for me to express my Godhead in this world. There’s always the remote chance, by mutely holding my Power, that it will eventually blossom while the whole Universe bows at my feet.

     No, I won’t commit suicide, I’ll just bide my time, always on the lookout for that one hope of heralding in my Godhead. Which reminds me, I better not let the nurses and doctors read all this, I’ll never get out!