Psychiatrism

 

Defined as, 'The desire to become a psychiatrist, falsely label others as mentally ill, and then to treat them with harmful methods for a profit.'

link to Psychiatrism in the Urban Dictionary

 

and, if you want this image in a sticker, T, poster etc, go to my site at Redbubble

 

Also, some further reading on psychiatrism

And the torture psychiatry inflicts recognised by the UN:  'Deprivation of liberty on grounds of mental illness...that inflicts severe pain or suffering falls under the scope of the Convention against Torture.'


So,


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Transgenerational protest and social change

 

My mother’s big protest kabooie was sexism and so was my nana’s. Nana receiving half the wages of a male teacher, to feed her family with, really wasn’t okay; particularly as her husband died as a result of doing things in the war he didn’t want to do, like mowing down people with a tank. He relived the horror of doing such a disgusting act, blaming himself over and over for those he was ordered to kill… My mother’s experience involved severe trauma, so she hurled her protest around in a way that was upsetting to her children. But she didn’t do it all the time and she really didn’t have full control when society was still blaming her for the violence perpetuated against her. The mental health system at the time treated trauma, as it mostly still does, like the victim of crime has ‘problems.’ Court cases were discussed and I knew at quite a young age that a woman could be horrifically brutalised, but if she could be proven to be ‘loose,’ then she would not win a case against her attackers…

 

                My father, although he didn’t talk much, carried environmental and wartime conspiracies. His father had been pushed off a building in Cairo during WW2. My father had also worked on environmental studies where, any information that contravened what the mining companies wanted to do disappeared, and, a colleague leading the environmental project ‘suicided.’ My father was also stopped from teaching ‘the hothouse effect’ which is a precursor theory to ‘the greenhouse effect.’ He was a very silent man, my father. But he did show his anger on occasions, generally with a big fog-horn booming voice. So I somewhat felt his protest at a young age.

                I think most people carry some of the baggage from their parents and do try to make the changes to society happen, which their parents couldn’t. It kind of is the subliminal ‘job’ of the progeny to do that. But the progeny have to do it differently from the parents, if the parents really couldn’t handle the backlash of their times, together with the trauma they most likely suffered, it's no good parroting what they said.

Transgenerational protest… it’s not about genes, it’s about society, what society needs to do to become more humane, and, it’s definitely not a chemical imbalance and not something that should be said to be the ‘fault/ illness/ disease’ of the progeny, who understand the previous generation of protestors, and are trying to cope with that, and get their own needs met... lest we forget.

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A little drum

Bought a little hand-drum

And as I travel on the road,

My lover asks me to play.

It’s wonderful to have that

Encouragement from him

Compared to the memory

Of others telling me that

My rhythm should go away,

That my music isn’t their sway…

I beat out the intrusive past nagging.

I beat out what’s going on now,

Not between us lovers but

In government policy. Crimes…

So many things just around

The wrong way, still, today.

Laws that call torture ‘medicine,’

Laws that call forced-drugging ‘care’.

I’m throwing up the past inside

That flashes back its sense-memory.

And I pound and I pound my palms

As I hear those kind words,

‘You’re going to beat this

You’re going to beat this

Thing you’re not wanting,

This thing that stops progression,

That suicides a person’s health.

You’re going to beat this

Thing that has no right to exist

Psychiatric abuse cannot persist.’

All becomes sound

As I pound out the feeling

And the bad emotions go away

Gets put into the sound,

Sound that is heard, outside me,

Sound that says so much more

Than words will ever really.

I never want to misdirect

My justifiable anger from much

Denied rights and the damning

Of so many others still feeling

The pain psychiatry inflicts,

With which I very much empathise.

I never want to misdirect this.

I have memory of other things,

That sometimes get me too,

But I don’t misdirect that,

I don’t want another to suffer

The wounds of abuse

Ricocheting from my words,

That just need a drum sound

To clip their harsh content.

No, I don’t misdirect it,

That anger has a place to go…

And I have my little hand-drum

To beat and beat and beat

And a lover that is someone

Who gives me incredible amity

Such that I could never imagine

Possible before… He recognises

The serious flaws in mental health

Laws that attempt to manage

Diversity by crippling ability,

By infringing basic rights,

By dehumanising and debilitating.

I beat and beat and beat

So all goes into sound and I can

Find another way, another way

Another way that might get there

And give a panacea to pain

That intrudes from the past,

Traumas that demand some kind

Of way of being heard,

Even if not always through

Sensible words and legalese.

The beat becomes easy

And travels and morphs

Back to where I want to be

In the land of love, traveling home

With my lover beside me.

Beat out my heart then,

And the emotion between,

Love, love, love, that dream,

It cures all, that beautiful sense

Of connection drumming.

Memories of trauma are surfacing as symptoms

The things that are

Called surfacing symptoms

Are on my tongue to say again

And I am making peace

With them, this time.

I am recognising that

Yes it did occur and yes

It was bad enough to

Harm me, but now I’m healed.

The wounds in my psyche

Have had recognition enough

To realise they don’t need

To worry about the worry

That existed in the past.

I am past that danger zone…

I drop those thoughts in

To the part of my mind

That is on remote control,

Drop those thoughts in…

Like a person with stomach

Ulcers trying to relax

The stomach that dissolves

The food in it automatically,

I drop those thoughts in…

Like an asthmatic meditating

And singing to get the automatic

Breath back to where

It is most comfortable.

I drop those thoughts in…

I am making the memory

Muscle of my mind relax

And stop being a problem,

Because it isn’t really,

It’s just a memory of trauma

That needed more conscious

Recognition that those things

That happened over years

And years, then happened

Again in other ways

With different people,

Weren’t okay and I won’t

Allow myself to be

Controlled that way again.

I know that love isn’t

An ambivalent thing,

It never should be

Extracted via fear, and if it is,

Then that is not okay

And should be acknowledged

For the wrong that it is.