Come to me Lucifer, come.

I met you several times already, first time, at the age of three. You were glancing at me through my window. I was lying in my cot and I told then myself: ‘yes, what I see is real, and yes, I see the devil.

I met you then several times after (you can read about some of our encounters Here, Here and Here) and every time I was amazed by your presence: spectacular, magnificent, oh, so grounded, when you appeared to me as a beautiful black panther three weeks ago. You are really beautiful, my angel on earth.

You see, I am also an angel and I was Jesus Christ in my previous life, after I was an Egyptian princess, and before I was Princess Anastasia and Anne Frank.

You were a pharaoh then, do you remember?

I do, I try to remember.

You appeared to me in the forest in my previous life. You promised so many interesting and exciting things (Matthew, 4). I should have listened but I did not, thinking I could do it all on my own, but of course, I could not. Evil was walking on earth (and it is not you, but humans who refuse to believe in miracles, in anything that is good). My Chinese oracle tells me it’s because of decadence and indifference to neglect, while I think it is more than that. Those who killed Good maybe can’t be forgiven. But it’s up to God to decide!

It’s like a story of Rumplestiltskin, agree? God created another son, but there is always a first one and it’s you. A farther has always to forgive his children. I am not moving to the next stage without you being forgiven.

I forgive you.

But now I also need help from you. Do you remember how you appeared to me in the cell? In the middle of Amsterdam city? You materialised in the form of a Native American and asked me to heal you, and I did, I gave you my life force.

And I know you are looking for your saviour, for the woman who healed you.

And here is the interesting bit. I had to go and find you myself in my dreams, but your stupid bodyguards didn’t let me inside. Read about my failed devils ball attendance HERE).

That’s a little bit unfair, agree?

Being Mad is Liberating

Being mad is liberating. Well, at least with practice and determination, because, let’s face it, being mental (with a confirmed diagnosis) is not a high status on the scale of popularity in our society, defined as it is by the standards of normality.

My own sense of liberation came around two years ago when I was sitting on a bench in the park. A man literally materialised himself on the same bench a minute later, smoking a cigar in a leisured manner. I didn’t see him approaching and his whole appearance was slightly bizarre: mismatched glasses, dirty trousers and an expensive red tie.

It didn’t take me long to start thinking that it might be the Devil, a character I met in all of my psychoses. After an initial deliberation about whether I was experiencing a hallucination (unlikely since the man kept on sitting where he was even after I blinked several times in a row) or a delusion (an explanation more probable than the first), I dismissed these probabilities firmly from my head. I knew that I wasn’t psychotic, helped by the fact that I was on a low dose of quetiapine, and that while I had no proof that the man might be the Devil, he also could be, even if according to the psychiatrists, seeing the character and all other bizarre occurrences belong to the domain of insanity.

I walked away from the bench as fast as I could, because to be honest, I try to avoid the Devil in all his manifestations, but this experience got me thinking. What if the things that mad people see and hear are real? What if there is this tiny possibility that the truth indeed lies in madness and not in what is projected to us by the society as being normal?

I have to admit that simultaneously writing a Ph.D. thesis on how Facebook collects its data helped me in the matter of thinking about my own madness and the madness of others. You see, Facebook and all other Internet companies as well as grocery shops (via their loyalty cards) store everything that comes on their radar. They know all about your daily habits, your friends, what you like having for your breakfast and whether you are single or not. This is in line with what the majority of mad people believe – that we are constantly being watched. Tell this to a psychiatrist? He will answer that you are mental, despite the evidence to the contrary. We are being watched, every single moment of our day and night.

The presence of the Devil is obviously harder to prove and it is not something that I am planning to discuss with psychiatrists in any point of my remaining life. But in an unlikely event that it might happen, I already know their answer. The Devil will be put into the basket of hallucinations or delusions, despite the fact that almost all religions of the world admit his existence.

Here’s a question that has been bothering me for a while: Why is it that while there are considerably more people who are mental than there are psychiatrists, it is the mad who are called being stupid (but in a politically correct way)?

Don’t get me wrong, I am not against psychiatrists as such. Most of them do try to help, and I met a couple among them who turned out to be brilliant and fun people. I do take their medication even if I learned from experience that unless I am ready to live like a zombie, I should administer my own dose and not the one they prescribe.

No, it is a lack of a dialogue with psychiatrists that annoys me the most. We know, of course, that psychiatry is an establishment, discussed in length and depth by those willing to sacrifice themselves to the cause. Michel Foucault was perhaps the most prominent scholar in the field and he pointed quite correctly to the fact that psychiatry simply fits into the trend of growing medicalization, where everything that falls outside normality should be treated immediately with some miraculous pills. And usually this is done with such an attitude of arrogance that even those who had no problem in the first place start believing that they are terminally ill.

I did have a problem when I was admitted to the hospital with an acute psychosis for the first time. I didn’t sleep for ten days brought about by the stress of life. I was working for two years as a financial analyst of banks, and as financial crises demonstrate quite clearly, working in finances can drive anyone mad.

The thought pattern after a prolonged insomnia does perhaps belong to the realm of insanity, but among the chaos I was demonstrating to the medical staff who admitted me to the hospital near the city of Amsterdam, there were glimpses of what was really happening with me (besides boring explanations which can be found in their Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.)

“I am Buddha,” I told to my doctor and this is exactly how I was feeling at that time. I was feeling light, happy, full of life. Banks under my analysis could go and fuck themselves and I, Ekaterina from Russia, was ready to enter into a higher vintage point.

The doctor didn’t share my wishes towards happiness. He didn’t even smile (or laugh, which would be even more appropriate) and instead of congratulating me on the fact that I finally started to see the truth, that I was on some road of enlightenment and should abandon my job in finances once and for all, he declared with a solemnly serious face,

“I think you are mad.”

In retrospect, the only mad thing I did was share my thoughts with the doctors. Was I Buddha really? No, I wasn’t, even if it is entirely possible that I was one in my past life. No, my state of Buddhahood was pointing towards the general dilemma experienced by our society. I wanted to be out of the system based on accumulation, statuses and endless consumption. I wanted to be free.

But this is the problem with most psychiatrists, in my opinion. They don’t have a broad vision of life. Their focus is on details, on something that treats manifestations and not the underlying cause. They simply don’t understand the madness, because in order to understand it, one has to be mad himself. How can you treat something when you don’t see or hear the same thing?

As Nietzsche once said, “Why does man not see things? He is himself standing in the way. He conceals things.” Funnily enough, he described in this way the state of psychiatry today. Psychiatry conceals things.

But because of the weight that the whole establishment carries on its shoulders, we are obliged to obey and if we don’t, we are forced to. My path towards enlightenment was cut short after that doctor put me on a killing dose of risperidone and suggested that I might suffer from schizophrenia. The only thing I could think of after the treatment was how nice it would be to die.

More diagnoses followed later, more hospitalisations (it is normal that one stops a medication that can potentially kill) and more tears. It was only enormous determination on my part, as well as simple curiosity, that finally helped me to get away from those psychiatrists. I haven’t seen them now for five years, I said goodbye to their claws even if the diagnosis of bipolar hangs firmly above my head.

But I don’t mind, because this diagnosis gives me the opportunity to speak. It shows that I’ve been there, I’ve seen it. I’ve seen the sad faces of patients who are told day after day that they are mad.

But what is madness exactly? Psychiatry describes it as a loss of touch with reality, as foolish behaviour, as insanity. It is amazing that we take their definitions seriously, considering that those who do see things, outnumber the ones who don’t.

Michel Foucault describes it as a discourse. Somewhere by someone it was decided that those who are more powerful should mistreat those who are weak, and while we see the rise of fight on behalf of other groups who have been discriminated against in the past, this rise towards freedom and equality from the mad is a slow process. This, I believe, is because of stigma, because they are afraid to speak, and because society is scared of anything that points to the fact that there might be another reality.

After that walk in the park, I admitted to myself for the first time that what I see is real. I see angels and fairies, I believe in the afterlife, I talk with animals and I know all about my past lives. And yes, I did meet the Devil. His numerous appearances helped me to realise that madness can also be a battle for one’s soul. I am a firm Christian as a result.

Am I being mad? Probably. But this is what I like in my life. If, on that day I was admitted to the hospital for the first time, someone asked me whether I would like to become normal again and forget about everything that happened to me, I would say a definite no. Because I remember how I was, sitting in a boring job day after day and believing that life was about my next salary, a useless trip to the gym and which diet to follow.

No, life is not about that, I’ve realized. Life is about discovery and madness, and seeing it this way is a sure way to get it right. I am finally free.

(This article was first published on Mad in America in 2015, but I asked to remove it, due to stigma.)

Here is the link to the original article.

My Moscow

Let’s make a break in psychiatry and return to Russia for a bit, my country, my native land.

I was born into a truly picturesque environment, I was born in Moscow. If you ever plan a trip to Russia, I really advise you NOT to miss that place. Moscow has the true Russian architecture, with its magnificent Kremlin, decorating the central space. There is also a mausoleum of Lenin there, something I never visited and never will, but let’s ignore a small negativity of the legacy of some Egyptian traditions to mummify a dead body, and move on towards the Cathedral of Vasily the Blessed,  known as St. Basil Cathedral, and also as Pokrovsky Cathedral, built from 1551 to 1561 on the decree from Ivan the Terrible, to commemorate the capture of Kazan and Astrakhan.

The Cathedral is more than magnificent, it is truly, I feel, a symbol of Russia and of Russian Orthodox Christianity. It stands tall and proud across the Moscow river, and when you drive past it at night, you land up in a magical domain, once you see it illuminated, like a star in a beautiful night. It shines by its beauty, and it shines its Christianity. It is a partial museum now, and when on a visit there, I always felt that it should be restored as a proper church. I know that from 1991 Church services restarted there, which is a blessing, of course.

The grave of the Russian Saint, Saint Vasily is there, the Russian Holy Fool (read about holy foolishness on my post here), and it has a shape of a bonfire, a design that is totally unique and as Dimitry Shidkovsky, described in his book ‘Russian Architecture and the West’, “It is like no other Russian building. Nothing similar can be found in the entire millennium of Byzantine tradition from the fifth to the fifteenth century…a strangeness that astonishes by its unexpectedness, complexity and dazzling interleaving of the manifold details of its design.” (2007, p. 126).

Moscow is full of magical, unexpected places. It is a unique combination of old and new, where almost each corner presents something wonderful and unique, and is truly Russian. If I return to Russia as a tourist, I will start with Moscow, and then proceed to the golden ring, and definitely not miss Suzdal, a city full of churches, but let’s take a walk in Moscow first.

My favourite place to hang out was always the Old Arbat and then walking towards the Kremlin across the bridge, right down to the Oktiabriaskaya underground station. Or turn right after leaving the Arbat and walk through the boulevard park towards Ostozhenka, where the Linguistic University can be found (former Institute of Foreign Languages, where I studied for a year, before moving to Brussels to continue my other degree in languages there). The Old Arbat is a pedestrian street, favourite of the artists, and vagabonds. It always attracted weird crowds of people, and that’s maybe I loved it so much. I felt like a part of the crowd of interesting, unusual people, of artists, painters and performers. My other best friend, Sergei, would often take me there, and we would chat and drink with his friends of the University of Film and Cinema (BGIK) where he studied to become an actor.

The Old Arbat has many interesting cafes, where one can get a good impression of how Russian people eat. It is always a nice warm meal, very delicious, as how pancakes, pastries, delicious porridges, fresh bread from the oven, and the incredible influence we got as legacy from Georgia and Armenia, can not taste good? Tea is more popular than coffee, and drinking tea is a proper ritual. If you are invited for a tea to the Russian family, except a feast. People in Russia, and my native town, are extremely hospitable. You will need to go on a diet, I guarantee you that. Russian host will bring everything he or she has on the table. Last time I was back in Moscow, my best friend, Masha, prepared a table that an army could eat. She made me my favorite meatballs, numerous salads, pastries, and a cake. My other best friend, Anya, made for me a special chicken and a salad of shrimps under the mayonnaise, that is now my signature dish if I am hosting.

I used to love walking in Moscow. I would spend days on it. After finishing my classes at the University, I would walk towards the Park of Culture, and admire the tress, and the lake, and then walk towards the Crimea Bridge and admire my native city. From the Crimea bridge that connects the underground station of Park of Culture and Oktyabriaskaya, one can get a glimpse of the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour and see the House of Artist, where I used to attend lessons in drawing, and that always has interesting, unique expositions.

Moscow is huge, and as a whole, does reflect well the Russian culture. It has churches with bells, numerous parks, incredible underground station, and people that read. One of the most amazing book shops, called Dom Knigi stands proud on the New Arbat, and if you are lucky one day to travel on the Moscow’s underground station, you will get the impression that you travel in a moving library. Everyone reads. Rides are long to connect people who go to work or to study, and they use this time with wisdom: they read.

At night the center is illuminated and if you do believe in magic, you will notice, that you are indeed in a magical land. I left my native, my beloved city at the age of nineteen to study in French in Brussels, another city I fell in love with. But I will tell you more about Brussels in another post.

(a view of Moscow with my best friend, Masha)

P. Tchaikovsky – Pas de Deux (‘The Nutcracker’

A Peek Inside the Modern Asylum

The psychiatric hospital of today might appear as a foreign, scary object to the mind who has never visited the institution. It represents the unknown, the territory that one is terrified of, but at the same time attracted to with natural human curiosity. Let’s be frank here: we want to know what is inside and who is “hiding” there.

In the eighteenth century, in Europe, many mental institutions called “asylums” were open to the public. In exchange for some entrance money, interested visitors could have a peek: they could stroll in the corridors and observe the patients inside. It was a popular destination by all accounts. People found “madness”—or rather, what is assigned to the term—interesting and irresistible.

Michel Foucault wrote about it extensively, presenting a picture of a typical Sunday morning in Paris for a middle-age couple. They wake up, have breakfast, and then go for a visit to a local asylum for entertainment. Doors were open to the eager public, and the asylums never lacked in visitors. It is indeed interesting, and probably more attractive than going to a theatre or the modern cinema. People aren’t acting there, and they are real.

William Hogarth’s 1735 engraving depicts visitors gawking at patients at Bethlehem Hospital, also known as ‘Bedlam’ @The Trustees of the British Museum

Today, that same curiosity about manifestations of “madness” is satisfied via books or, more often, via movies. It isn’t by accident that such movies as Girl, Interrupted and A Beautiful Mind were such a big success: “madness” has always been fascinating, and will always attract and terrify the human mind at the same time.

But let’s look at the psychiatric institution of today. It isn’t by accident that doors to it are closed to the curious mind, and only those who are unlucky end up being inside, on the wrong side of the equation—being a patient. The psychiatrists are the ones who walk really free there, looking, observing, analyzing, and then administering the cocktail of modern drugs. We read some stories, we get some news, but it is all presented to us as “mental illness,” part of the bigger discourse on “mental health.”

These stories hide the truth of the modern psychiatric narrative: that real, nice people end up there, and the psychiatric experience is likely to ruin one’s life for good. The drugs they prescribe don’t help with anything, and the stigma which gets attached after one receives a label or diagnosis is forever a scarlet letter on one’s life CV.

I have been unfortunate enough to deal with the psychiatry from “inside” and thus, am an unfortunate witness to the horrors behind the machine. I am also an academic and thus, am interested in the narrative—how my own personal story becomes part of a bigger picture. My story is unique, as are many others, but we all become just statistics in the psychiatric tale. We are all “patients” and we are all “insane.”

The mental health narrative of today is the continuation of the history of the psychiatry, beginning with the age they call “enlightenment,” when the doors were closed to the curious, and only the patients and treating “doctors” were allowed inside. I am not sure it was done out of good will, because it banned the witnesses of the injustices happening there. It is really taking the truth out of the terrifying tale hidden in the modern mental health narrative. People are often held against their will inside these institutions, though their only “crime” is that they dared to have weird thoughts or hear voices.

The modern mental health narrative is the recycling of the psychiatric song to present it to us as something innocent, mundane and even good. Yes, we should think about the sanity of our minds, take care of our bodies, sleep, eat well, and exercise our bodies and minds. However, this tale that appears innocent hides the fact that it simply scares people into a pattern of normality. A pattern where everyone should be the same, behave the same way, and do the same things as everyone else: think about which car to purchase, where to spend the next holiday, and whether to swipe left or right on Tinder. Once you start questioning the so-called normality of student loans, paying mortgages, marriage, kids, gym membership and the like, you will exhibit “abnormal” behavior, I can guarantee you that. You will start questioning things and stop and wonder: Why are there so many homeless people on the streets? Why is Africa so poor? How can I think of the next holiday when there is so much poverty in my otherwise rich land?

Your weird thoughts will scare you, and you might become what they call “depressed.” Depression is definitely not an illness, but it is a fact. It is nothing else but a natural reaction of a mind that wants more from life than the boring tale of “normality.” If you dig deeper, you might even get onto the scale of what they call “bipolar,” and if you embrace your weird thoughts with zeal, and voices finally reach you (the real spirit world hiding behind our “normality” narrative disguised as “the age of reason and enlightenment”), then you might get the label of “schizophrenic.”

All these labels are just words invented by the twisted tale of psychiatry to deceive our minds and prevent us from thinking and behaving differently. There is no mental illness, and there never was. People simply get unwell, and bad things happen in life.

But the psychiatric institution of modern times, with its closed doors, lingers on top of our minds as the forbidden bad fruit that no one should touch, terrifying us and scaring us, because let’s be frank and honest here: no one wants to end up there. And not because one is afraid to become “ill” (we are all prone to “madness,” let me assure you), but because of the narrative of mental health.

Trump demonstrated the scariness of the narrative to perfection when he condemned all “mentally-ill” people. He showed how strong the stigma is and that the slogan “mental illness is like physical illness” is just words into the air. Trump demonstrated the real attitude toward people with “mental illness.” He simply doesn’t know who they are, and what is really taking place—behavior and thought control by the psychiatric institution.

And only a few of us know and see the truth.

The psychiatric institution is mostly an abstract body hanging over our head, sort of a bad headmaster telling us what to do and how to act—a behavioral control manager. It terrifies us with its promise of inflicting a label on the innocent mind, but at the same time, lures us for a peek inside.

Today we don’t have the possibility for a peek inside, but we remain, nevertheless, very curious. We do wonder what is taking place inside, who is held inside, and what it looks like. Mental health patients are your biggest celebrity story, hidden behind the bars of the psychiatric system, which doesn’t want to reveal its badly written script.

I was once inside and thus, am inviting you to have a look. I will take your hand, and encourage you to join me, on an exploration of the inside of the psychiatric institution.

Let’s open the door.

Once we manage it (and it isn’t easy as the doors are really locked), we proceed along a corridor. Psychiatric hospitals operate according to the principle of the panopticon, as Michel Foucault describes in his brilliant book, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. He tells us about the emergence of the modern prison system, operating according to the principle of surveillance. “He is seen, but he does not see; he is an object of information, never a subject in communication,” Foucault tells us, referring to the fact that in our current behavior surveillance system, we act like everyone else due to fear of being observed and punished if we do something wrong. The panopticon has a structure: you have a central vintage point through which you can see everything, scaring the subjects into compliance. The subject is always observed.

Modern psychiatry operates according to the same principle, and so do its facilities, such as mental health institutions. In each long corridor of its facilities you have a central point, where psychiatric nurses hold their watch. It is indeed a watch, and if you think that they provide care and show love, then you are wrong. Most of the time they write notes and if we glance inside the notes we will see the following: “Today M dressed more appropriately and was nice to the staff,” or “This morning G stopped his uncontrollable laughing and showed some insight into his behavior.”

Trust me, school is a piece of cake to pass in comparison to what is happening in the notes and observation techniques of the staff in psychiatric hospital, and none of them ever shows any insight or comprehension into their own idiocratic stance. They simply don’t know what they are doing and why, because of the system of the psychiatric establishment. Those who show any weird thought pattern or exhibit strange behavior should be put inside the mental health institution and be re-trained as to how to behave normally.

The nurses sit at their central point, visibly bored and annoyed. They don’t like the patients who come with constant demands, which are always the same and don’t change. “Can I go out, please?” “Can I have a bath?” “Can someone, please, take me on a walk?” “Can I call my friend R?” “When can I see the doctor?” “When will I be discharged?” These are the irritating demands of the patients, taking the attention of nurses away from their notes—and notes take most of their time and attention, because of someone out of their mind who invented psychiatry: it isn’t the patient that matters, but what is written about him/her in the notes. The notes are shown to the treating psychiatrist and stored on shelves, although no one will ever glance a second time into the books and volumes describing us, describing the behavior of those unfortunate enough to step outside the scales of normality.

But let’s move away from the central post and look at the room next to it. It is a room with a phone, where patients queue (when they are allowed) to make a call, and where the treating psychiatric consultant deals with the patients, if other rooms are occupied. It is a small, stinky room, with a closed window, where both the consultant and his patients feel suffocated and mal-at-ease. The doctor doesn’t want to be there, it is the patient who asks to see him again and again, with the same annoying demand as always: “When can I go home?” she asks.

You might think it is funny, but it isn’t funny at all for the patient on the wrong side of the equation. The power machine is firmly in the hands of the consultant psychiatrist and only he can decide on your fate. And it is indeed a fate: one day longer and the patient can be driven to such a despair that he will try to take his life. And if this happens, the cycle becomes much longer, because in that case, the patient is proclaimed as a risk to himself, and is kept behind the doors for much longer. Then it is just survival instinct that might save the patient and give her the strength to endure it all longer.

Let’s walk away from the room and have some fresh air—in the garden that is usually present (thank god) in the facilities. The garden is used for the patients to have a cigarette and to pray. It is here that most interesting conversations take place, away from the observational post of the nurses. It is here that they dare to quickly exchange their own thoughts, such as sharing the voices they hear and the visions they see. It is here that they also get advice from someone who is more advanced in their knowledge of the panopticon, such as, “Don’t say all this to the doctor.” One needs to comply, behave as normal as possible, and not reveal one’s mind to the psychiatrist. Following the rules also means being extra-nice to the nurses who are not nice back to you, wearing presentable clothes, and acting like you are at an office meeting, definitely not as if in the hospital, oh no. I feel much more relaxed in my working place than I ever was inside a psychiatric hospital.

The psychiatric hospital of today, to conclude my narrative, is a panopticon, a modern prison for the daring mind and for weird behavior. We had a small peek, but in reality, it is much more distressing for the one who is being observed. In some hospitals they have cameras in the rooms to supervise the “patient,” and in some establishments, there are people who stay there for years, injected with drugs against their will, losing all hope and desire for living.

It isn’t funny, it isn’t entertaining, and it is bad.

But all who are lucky enough not to end up there march past this monstrosity, oblivious to the torture of the mind happening behind those walls.

(This article was first published by me on Mad in America website and can be found here.)

***

(Picture of me, taking a picture: I like to observe)

Waarom

Different ways of lives, different languages and cultures appeal to me from an early age.

I remember while being still small in Russia I was walking together with my mother towards the bus station. I can’t recall what was the reason of taking the bus but I clearly remember my state of mind during the march to the bus station

I was out of this world, engrossed totally in my own inner imaginative sphere and I was asking questions in my own head: why is the sky blue? Why should we assume that only the physical manifestations is what the world is about? The road, the bus station visible at a distance, people walking towards it from our Soviet style building where with my family we lived on the 16th floor.

Why are we rushing always towards perfection, my seven years old mind was asking God knows whom. Why do people get angry sometimes and why is the moon moving in cycles?

This sort of questions invaded my head from an early age and I applied a mode of ‘check out of reality’ to deal with all that. Life, according to me as a child, was supposed to be a constant stream of big celebrations: friends around to play and to talk, presents not reserved to just an event such as a birthday or New Year Eve. Cakes everyday, even if in small quantities, people singing on the streets. Children laughing, everywhere and always.

But instead I was confronted with a gruesome picture. Unhappy people queuing for the bus, sleep deprived children going to school, and everyone around playing some kind of normality. You behave, you follow the rules, you obey the existing structure.

My ‘check out’ technique helped me to process the grim reality by presenting me with a more colourful vision. In it lived a magician high in the sky, angels sung, and people danced. I had names for them, burrowed from numerous books I was always busy reading. Christian was a king of the birds, Olanda was a fire queen, while Patrick was a light keeper.

It was while living in the Netherlands that I found a better, much stronger version of a language to address my dilemma as to ‘why’. The Russian version ‘почему’ was too soft, more like a whisper rather than a question asking for an immediate answer. The French ‘pourquoi’ left the possibility of a reply with another question rather than an answer one seeks. To the French ‘Pourquoi’ there is always an option to answer ‘pourquoi pas’. It’s like talking in riddles while your questions still hang in your head.

But the Dutch language gifted me with a perfect word for what I am trying to describe in this post. It is Waarom- strict, precise and powerful sound pronunciation that in English can be spelled as ‘vaaroum’. A single word but holding in itself massive power. I even noticed that when someone asks me ‘Waarom’, I try to still provide some sort of answer even when I have absolutely no clue.

And so now, while I march in my daily reality I start my questions in my head with this powerful Dutch world:

Waarom have we so much poverty still?

Waarom did we have September 11?

Waarom there is still so much misery in our beautiful world?

Waarom there is so much sadness where I can hear so much crying?

And most importantly, waarom asking too many questions about humanity and the world we are living in, is considered as being too weird.

Waarom do we accept the ‘normality’ of this world where people mostly march with neglect and indifference to what’s happening in our beautiful planet, such as hunger in some countries, poverty in almost all countries, so much anger, so much disappointment, tears and sadness?

Waarom?

The Russian Patient. Chapter One

According to the Chinese, everything in this universe evolves within yin and yang energy. Yin represents the feminine, water and passive. Yang is the male, fire and active. Both have to be in harmony, which exists to maintain balance in our universe and within each of us.

My body had to undergo a major shock at the age of twenty-seven to recognize that my yin and yang balance was severely distorted. True, at my birth I received the perfect fire and water combination. I was born in a female body in July in Moscow in the Chinese year of dragon. My zodiac sign is cancer and my year of birth is the dragon. The cancer is water and the dragon is fire. However, as one Russian politician once put it: ‘we tried our best, but you know the rest’. The hospital where I was born did not have any hot water on that lucky day, and my small body was washed with cold water. This first event in my life is reflected in the picture taken immediately after the cold water procedure. Everyone looks happy and cheerful, except me. The creature in the photo has a blue face and looks like it is going to die. Which almost happened, as according to my mum, I developed a terrible flu and was lucky to live. What’s lucky is a big question, since I am not that sure that my life has been particularly lucky.

            In any case, after the cold water and the flu, the yang element took over, and I developed the strange idea that life is about survival. One has to put in enormous efforts in order to be alive, feel happy, and receive love.

            By the age of twenty-seven I was convinced that I had everything one was supposed to achieve with this kind of thinking. I had a nice job by society’s standards, was exercising my body like mad in a very good gym and was dating all kinds of weirdoes, which as far as I could see, was the case of almost all of my friends. And I strongly believed that I had put in enormous efforts in order to have the life that I had.

            Then, what was wrong with me, you might ask?

            One sure thing was that I had terrible problems with my mind. It was unable to shut it up. Although I seriously doubt that my power animal was a little mouse, I have the impression that my mind was constantly busy with analysing and scrutinising. Once I tried a trick, I made an attempt to get rid of my thoughts. I was even able to watch them at some point, like dark heavy clouds around my head.

            ‘Ekaterina, you are not worthy!’

            ‘Ekaterina, you are stupid.’

            ‘Ekaterina, you are a failure.’

            ‘Ekaterina, you are a total failure.’

            ‘Ekaterina, you are bad.’

            ‘Please, god, take away my mind.’

            ‘There is no god!’

            ‘I need a cigarette.’

            ‘You are mad!’

            ‘Please, god, help me.’

            ‘According to Nietzsche, god is dead.’

            ‘Nietzsche was mad.’

            ‘So, are you.’

            ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.’

            You see, I did have a problem.

            Another black spot in my biography is my name. My name, Netchitailova, is the size of a skyscraper in New York city and caused me only trouble while subscribing to libraries or opening a bank account. Netchitailova is unpronounceable in other languages other than Russian and means unreadable. This in itself is quite a pity, since my biggest passion in life is reading. Though it is not as bad as some other names in the Russian language. Imagine if you have the name Netchactlivaya, which means unhappy, and try to convince strangers or your friends that you might be in a cheerful mood.

            The third thing, which is for sure, is that officially I am indeed mad. A certificate from psychiatrists that I’ve been psychotic (and more than once) is definite proof of my madness.

            What is psychosis, you might ask? The usual scientific definition explains this phenomenon as a state of mind which is characterised by a loss of contact with reality, accompanied by delusions and hallucinations (including hearing voices). Well, it probably does not say much to you as, according to this definition, the majority of the world population is in constant psychosis. Someone is suffering from a delusion of being on a mission from god to liberate the world from terrorists, another believes in extra-terrestrials and I know a woman who makes millions of dollars by claiming that she can communicate with dead people.

            A real psychosis is when your madness is confirmed by a certified psychiatrist.

            I have, for instance, a friend who believed all his life that in his previous incarnation he was Napoleon. Nothing is wrong with this belief (which might be true as a matter of fact), but be careful to whom you reveal your deepest secret. My friend started to talk about his Napoleonic ambitions at his work. Well, he ended up in the hospital. 

            As for me, I freaked out on a rather ordinary day in November while sitting behind my desk at my job in Amsterdam. It was pouring with rain – but that’s a usual thing in that city. Starting from October till April in general, almost everyone in the Netherlands is battling with the feelings of depression due to strong wind, constant rain, and grey sky.

            I wasn’t battling with depression though, but rather with euphoria. I had this feeling that something magical was awaiting me in the near future. That the life I knew now would be transformed into something much more interesting and fulfilling.      I suppose that practically everyone reaches this point in life nowadays, at least in Western society. The point when life appears to be worthless and one starts asking oneself serious questions about fate, the purpose of life, and one’s own role in society. I wouldn’t assume that so many people reach this moment in life, if the amount of self-help books in the stores didn’t testify otherwise. Nowadays it’s the biggest selling market in the book world.

            I reached this point rather early in life, at the age of twenty-seven. Maybe because I was Russian – and Russians are well known for exporting crazy and suicidal elements to the rest of the world, or maybe because I worked in finances. Bankers are the first to react despairingly in crises – as the amount of suicides demonstrates at each and every financial crisis.

            I wasn’t a banker, but I was a financial analyst of banks. In between lunches at banks, where I could at least indulge in my love of food (when I was allowing myself the pleasure of eating), I was battling with overwhelming boredom. Analysing figures and reading annual reports of banks for five days a week for two years straight can drive anyone mad.

            But since quite a lot of financial analysts of banks don’t go crazy, I guess that in my case there was something else besides simple boredom. Now, looking back with some perspective, I suppose that it wasn’t just the job – it was the whole routine of organizing your life when you have to sit the whole day in an office.

            Just think, for a second, about what exactly I mean. If you happen to work in an office as well – you might quite easily visualize the picture.

            Your day starts with the terrible beep of an alarm. Not only are they really unpleasant, they also intervene, in a nasty way, into the natural functioning of your body. You would love to continue seeing that last dream (something like enjoying a holiday in the Bahamas) for five minutes more, but eventually you end up dragging yourself out of your warm and cosy bed to attend to your responsibilities.

            Then you grab, from the fridge, whatever is available for your breakfast (assuming you are well organized and do have something in your fridge), take a quick shower and run towards the underground station as you realise that you might be late. As usual.

            In the underground station (or… on a bus), once having managed to battle through a crowd to get onto the train, you have to endure standing close to irritated and sleep-deprived fellow passengers, who are more than happy to invade your personal space as you do theirs. And in case you go by car to work, I bet you spend some quality time in a traffic jam.

            By the time you rush into the office, it’s rare that you are in a cheerful mood.

And it’s just the beginning of your day. You still have to face eight long hours (at least) in the office.

            From these eight hours, as a general rule, you need to pretend that you are working for a minimum four hours (to keep up appearances and stay in good graces with your boss). You do have to act as if you are doing something useful, in between coffee breaks, chatting with colleagues, checking private mails or your Facebook account (if it’s not yet banned at your workplace).

            You survive till lunch (the best part of the working day by all standards), but then the worst part of the day lasts for eternity. Our bodies are programmed in such a way that the most natural thing to do after your lunch is to have a good nap.

            But no, in your case you have to drag yourself back behind your desk and struggle with a terrible desire to sleep for the best part of the afternoon. You try to focus on your job (with difficulty), while at the same time constantly checking the clock to see how much time is left till you are free to go home.

            Still… at this point, you try to think of doing something positive about your life once out of the office. Instead of watching the next episode of Eastenders or sabotaging your brain with something like Big Brother, you envision yourself doing something more productive and useful, like joining a course in creative writing, starting to study a language or simply reading an intellectual book.

            Unfortunately, this positive thinking usually stays in the realm of a fantasy vision, since as soon as you are out of the office, you can’t wait to end up on your cosy sofa watching endless TV until it’s time for bed.

            And the next day it starts all over again, and the day after, and the day after, until it’s weekend – the only time we seem to really enjoy ourselves nowadays. 

            On that particular November morning, when I was trying to do some estimates for banks, I got, for the first time, a glimpse that life could be something else entirely.

            Doctors blame it on the chemical imbalance in the brain, David Icke says that we are invaded by reptiles, and some call it enlightenment.

            Whatever the name of the phenomenon, on that day I took my first ride into a magical world, which is hidden from us behind job responsibilities, money worries and the burden of everyday routine tasks.

            Who knew that this adventure would land me right in the nearest psychiatric hospital?

побег из больницы

Сбежала я из больницы через две недели, так как добровольно меня не отпускали. Типа, всё очень серьёзно, если загремел в психбольницу с психозом (как именно до больницы я доехала, я ещё расскажу – довезли меня туда мой босс с моей финансовой компании и моя коллега, и в том числе подруга, Лена).

Что в психушке всё очень строго мне сообщил мой врач. Я в палату свою, когда вернулась после посетителей, он сразу туда примчался, взглянул на мою запись на стене, что «Я – Будда», и сообщает:

«Девушка, у вас психоз, будем лечить.»

Ну а я ему отвечаю:

«Я выспалась (я там три дня проспала по приезду, после своей одиннадцатидневной бессонницы), и пора домой. Здесь с вашими цветочками я находиться не собираюсь!»

А он в ответ:

«Психоз – это очень серьёзно, сейчас выпишем лекарство, и вы находитесь в закрытом отделении. Выпишем, когда я разрешу.»

«А президента Буша тогда почему не лечите?» Я интересуюсь.

Ну врач как-то смутился и спрашивает:

«Причём тут Буш?»

«Ну а как же!» Я уточняю. «Вот ведь у кого настоящий психоз. Самая настоящая паранойя, я бы даже добавила! Везде мерещатся ему террористы!»

Ну врач смотрит на меня молча, не знает, что мне ответить.

«Ладно,» я говорю, «если я в вашей больнице, например соглашусь побыть, то сколько вы мне за это платить будете?»

А врач (назовём его доктор Тромп) почему-то бледнеет и переходит на голландский язык (до этого он говорил по-английски):

«Вы находитесь на территории Голландии! Мы за пребывание в больнице деньги не платим! Зато вы можете заказать себе любимое блюдо! Питание три раза в день, есть бассейн! Есть сад и занятия по йоге!» Разворачивается и уходит.

Мда, я задумалась. Похоже я попала! Кто бы мог подумать, что из больницы так легко не уйти? Посидела, посидела на кровати и пошла на разведку опять в зал. Решила проверить, чем в психушке можно заняться. Ну и решаю про себя, что есть неплохая возможность подучить голландский. В компании, где я работала в основном, говорили по-английски и друзья почти все иностранцы были в Амстердаме, а тут, я как бы попала в среду.

В зале, когда я пришла, сидела только женщина в тёмных очках. Та, что была в футболке с надписью «ПСИХИАТРИЯ – НА ХУЙ», куда-то ушла (там не особо-то можно было куда-то ходить, как я потом выяснила, так чисто из палаты в зал, и обратно, я там со скуки чуть не сдохла до своего побега).

Подхожу я к женщине, рядом сажусь и знакомлюсь:

«Я – Катя. Из России.»

Женщина голову только повернула (очки не сняла):

«Меня зовут Руф, я тут с депрессией.»

Ага, я думаю, тут так представляться надо! Но я решила не уточнять, зачем я в психушке, так как, и козлу было ясно, что попала я туда чисто случайно.

«Неужели бывает депрессия?» Спрашиваю я Руф. «У нас в России такой болезни не существует! Есть подруги, которым можно позвонить в два часа ночи, и водка!»

А Руф в слёзы! Очки сняла, глазки трёт, потом так зло на меня смотрит, встаёт и уходит из зала.

Побежала жаловаться, как вскоре выяснилось. Прибегает санитар, на вид, Индонезиец, высокий и даже красивый.

«Ты что в депрессию не веришь?» Смотрит на меня с укором.

«Верю, верю!» Отвечаю. «Откуда мне знать было, что есть такая болезнь? Я тут у вас новенькая, пообещали мне йогу и бассейн. Вот и покажи, где бассейн! Не телевизор же мне у вас тут смотреть!»

Ну а санитар садится рядом и давай мне правила объяснять. Что типа, у них в больнице порядок. Йога раз в неделю по средам. Бассейн – тоже по расписанию.

Санитар, кстати этот, меня потом после больницы нашёл и на свидание позвал. Влюбился по ходу дела в меня в больнице. Я на свидание пошла, он в больнице самый добрый был. Провёл меня один раз в бассейн не по расписанию, выводил на ночные прогулки в их сад, когда мне не спалось, дарил сигареты.

Но со свидания я через полчаса после его начала ушла. Повёл в индонезийский ресторан и как сразу выяснилось, с серьёзными намерениями. Начал говорить, что с мамой и папой познакомить хочет, про свои планы на жизнь, и что хочет больше двух детей. Ну а меня, если честно, то такие заявки всегда очень пугали. Сразу напрягала в башке картина, где я стою у плиты, груда посуды, и муж вдобавок, за которым надо носки подбирать. Мне такого счастья никогда не надо было, я всегда любила быть одна, встала я из-за стола после закуски, перед подачей главного блюда, сказала, что мне надо в туалет, а сама из ресторана убежала, и поехала, как помню к подруге вино пить (его в индонезийском ресторане не подавали).

Санитар мне потом ещё два года звонил, пока я телефон не поменяла, после того как меня сталкер там один достал. Но больше я с ним не виделась. С ним оказалось скучно.

В общем пока мне санитар рассказывал про правила, я для себя чётко решила.

Буду я отсюда бежать, если сами не выпустят через неделю.

Психушка в Голландии

Проснулась я когда в больнице после чая, то не сразу дошло до меня, где я. Глаза открываю и вижу: камера на стене! Прям на меня смотрит!

Ну я села на кровать и давай изучать в чём я одета. Про себя думаю: «похоже попала я в реалити тв!» Только вот как убей, не могу вспомнить, чтобы я туда когда-либо записывалась.

А одета я была в полосатую пижаму! Страшную и слишком на меня большую! Встала я с кровати злая, подошла к доске с мелом, отписалась, что «я- Будда», и выхожу из палаты вся на взводе. Ну думаю, пойду к продюсерам шоу буянить! Ишь как меня решили нарядить! Нет, не пойдет так дело! Уж если русскую женщину в «Старшего Брата» запустили, то будьте добры представить нас как есть! При каблучках и с помадой!

Выхожу в коридор, там тоже везде камеры и картины весёлые на стенах. Куда не посмотришь, везде цветочки. Напомнило мне это почему-то про детский сад в Москве. Тоже такого вод рода блеск в глаза. Вроде как должно стать весело, а мне всегда в саду хреново было. Хотелось быть при маме и папе, которые манную кашу на меня никогда не навязывали. А в саду навязывали! Приходилось мне эту кашу каждый раз под стол выкидывать. Воспитатели всё время орали и пытались найти виновника, но так никогда и не поняли, что виновником была я. Ну я девочка с виду была тихая и спокойная. Сидела всегда в первом ряду, типа воспитателя слушала, когда она книжки читала. Не ребёнок, а чудо. Про себя я сад ненавидела и воспитателей тоже. Книжки они интересно читать не умели.

В общем меня от картин с цветочками слегка затошнило, даже вкус манной каши во рту появился.

Буду обговаривать себе хороший контракт с продюсерами, решаю про себя. Если мне тут придется находиться с такими вот цветочками больше недели, то попрошу хорошие за это деньги! Плюс нормальный, адекватный гардероб.

Из коридора выхожу в зал. Комната такая большая, там телевизор, стол, диваны. И вижу, сидят там в уголке (и как-то странно на двух женщин, смотрящих телевизор, поглядывают) мой босс с моей финансовой компании, моя подруга Лена, и моя мама! Сидят все бледный и мрачные. Мама с платочком, типа плачет.

Неужели кто-то умер? Я испугалась!

Подбегаю к ним.

«Господи, что случилось?» спрашиваю.

А они все разом подскакивают и давай вокруг меня хороводы водить, громко при этом причитывая.

«Ой, ой, ой!»

«Мама-Миа!»

«Катюша, доченька моя, как ты?» Это уже мама спрашивает.

«Да нормально,» я говорю, а про себя начинаю соображать, что, что-то тут не то! С чего это вдруг, все переполошились? И вроде как, вспоминаю, что на реалити тв, посторонним нельзя.

«Катенька, доченька, мне позвонили, я сразу прилетела. Ну надо же, никогда, ни у кого в семье психоза не было! Что же случилось, деточка?» И смотрит на меня мама тоскливыми глазами. Босс мой на меня уставился тоже как-то грустно, а Лена (вместо того, чтобы поржать) всё на тех женщин, сидящих перед телевизором, косится. Ну я на них тоже решила обратить внимание и приглядываюсь. Ой, смотрю, одна сидит в футболке, на которой написано «ПСИХИАТРИЯ- НА ХУЙ», а другая сидит в тёмных очках, хотя вроде как телевизор смотрит.

Что-то тут явно не то, до меня наконец доходит. И почему я наряжена в полосатую пижаму?

«А где это я?» Спрашиваю я своих посетителей.

«Катюша, ты в больнице!» Мне отвечают.

Ну я себя осматриваю, и вроде как, помимо абсолютно жуткой пижамы, я окей. Руки и ноги похоже работают, и чувствую себя просто прекрасно (впервые в жизни так супер себя ощущала!).

«Что же это за больница такая?» Я интересуюсь, и ловлю себя на том, что тоже начинаю на женщин, сидящих перед телевизором, коситься всё больше и больше. Что-то тут СОВСЕМ не то! И правда, подозрительная такая картина!

«В психбольнице ты, Катя!» Мама говорит, и давай опять плакать. «Никто, никогда еще в роду, и на тебе, позорище!» И зарыдала в три ручья.

Ну я стояла до этого, а тут пришлось сесть, новость переварить. Они на меня втроём смотрят, ждут реакцию.

Ну а я про себя думаю, и правда, ведь позорище! Финансовый аналитик банков, портфельный менеджер акций в нехилой голландской компании, говорю на трёх языках (я голландский к тому времени ещё плохо знала), три диплома (плюс ещё квалификация профессионального инструктора по степ-аэробике), а сижу при этом в полосатой, неимоверно жуткой с виду пижаме! Такого позора действительно ещё у меня не было! Люблю я красивую одежду. Яркую и нарядную!

«Вы мне одежду принесли? НОРМАЛЬНУЮ?» спрашиваю я босса, Лену и маму.

А они пирожные шоколадные и бананы мне достают!

Одежду мне потом принесли, но не совсем, что надо было (притащили спортивные штаны и свитера!). Больница сама ничего так была. Если бы не мой психиатр, то настоящий курорт!

Бассейн, уроки рисования, кормили тоже неплохо. Котлеты, диетические супы, и неплохие десерты. Они меня даже спросили, что бы я хотела отдельно ещё получать (там можно было любимое блюдо заказать). Я попросила шампанское, но не дали, сказали нельзя. Пришлось тогда шампанское перезаказать на чёрную икру. Икры не оказалось, согласилась я на французский кофе. По утрам с чашечкой кофе сидела я у окна и наблюдала за птицами в саду.

Всё хорошо было, но психиатр оказался полный урод и через две недели мне там надоело.

Я решила сбежать.

On being Mental: NHS and Game of Thrones

Dear Camarades, colleagues, friends, and readers of this blog. This is a first part of a story of two to come on my Porcupine’s wisdom teachings.
Let’s start with part 1.
When I was telling you about the fact that you shouldn’t despair in case you end up in a mad house during the festive period, I didn’t realise that I was kind of fortune-telling and predicted my own landing in a mental institution for Christmas and New Year in one go. And therefore, when I was planning to write and give advice on how to spend quality time in its full glory if sectioned under mental health act  (part two will be about some practical ideas about how to survive the ordeal), I ended up following my own recommendations. 

But let me tell you more as to how I ‘volunteered’ myself into the section 3 of the mental health act (I did go to the hospital to seek help all by myself, driven by ambulance I summoned also all by myself).
I blame it on the weather. Winter has definitely come this year, and I couldn’t even leave my street for two days. It was literally frozen. If Sheffield is indeed in South Yorkshire, then York should be in Mexico.
 
 
And so, it was cold, very cold, especially that I couldn’t find time to fix my boiler, and was stressed to hell due to some other major worries.
I reckoned, on a subconscious level, that it would be just warmer in the hospital.
And I was right, not that it was done on purpose (me going to the mad house simply to warm up, well, actually, I did need a rehab in heating). Because I was freezing and shivering from cold so much at my own house, that I even started to come up with my own ideas for the Game of Thrones, season 8. You see, I am a Dragon myself (according to the Chinese wisdom), and I think that that Dragon who fell into the ice water, was resurrected by the army of dead people on purpose.
 
You see, while most spectators of the show (a guess), called ‘Game of Thrones’ are probably rather interested in royal intrigues and fights (and sex scenes of course, but unfortunately, they cut it down), my attention was glued to that mysterious leader of the army of the dead, with hypnotising blue eyes. He manages to lead his army of the dead with a remarkable zeal (Russian army?).
Who is this man, I was asking each time they would show the character, and he deserves more insight and attention in the show. I mean, the man with blue eyes is simply amazing.
 
And so, while I was thinking about the show, I kind of froze to death myself that winter (it was in 2017) and had an idea that the plan of the guy with the blue eyes, who leads the army of the dead, is to simply get himself and his army a warmer place to live. You see, a dragon can always survive, and if he hypnotised the dragon, there is a purpose in it, and a profound one. He wants his army to have food, shelter, medication and wellness retreat. For how long, are they supposed to live in the bloody Siberia?
 
But I will stop to elaborate on the possible story line for the Game of Thrones and will progress to some tips about survival in a mental institution:
1. Make friends with fellow patients, you will help each other, and stay friends after the hospital.
2. Pamper yourself.  Start exchanging clothes with patients, do each other nails and make-up, take baths and listen to the music. Do take part in their occupational therapy activities.
3. And final tip till my next post (part 2, apparently it didn’t happen, I forgot to write it). Try always to see the positive and as hard as it can be, persevere with some humour. I, for instance, was so tired of waiting for Jesus that decided to declare my own return (like finally) and feel fine. This time, I am female and I have brothers and sisters. And this was the real reason they decided to section me. My psychiatrist didn’t laugh when I said I am Jesus. 
I wasn’t.