Shrink

'Have you ever considered asking for professional help?'

'Excuse me?'

'Visiting a psychiatrist.'

'And what good would that do?'

'I know an excellent therapist. He can work wonders.'

Work wonders. Great. A shrink. I don’t need freaking wonders. I have enough of them in my mind, all of them waiting for fulfilment, stuck in the plastic universe of my imagination, filled with cracking fireworks and waterfalls and tornadoes and shooting stars and romantic moments that even Hollywood would want to get her greasy hands on. I’m sick of them.

What could I say to a psychiatrist? That I can see the world in its pixels, buzzing in billions of buds, some more impulsively, some hardly resonating? That I hallucinate smells, and food tastes likes ash and water like magma? Should I tell him that I can feel my skin becoming fragmented, shattering to shards and aching with desiccation? That the surrealism meter of my dreams is hitting the roof because I’m tired of suppressing my fancies? That everytime I wake up I feel as if a blanket of nightmare tsunami would draw back from me and leave me there with all the dubris dumped on me and I have no idea how to get rid of it? That every day feels like an uphill battle, without progress, hope for change, and I’m just wallowing in the same rut, same junk of complaints, same fire of failures? That I am slugging in a bell jar filled with toxic smog given off by my own fuming insanity? 
The best he can do is give me a box of pills to silence the voices in my head, or at least, turn the volume down. 

/2011.03.12./

Self-diagnosis

walls walls all around
what's within can't get out
outer dangers can't break through
inner monsters must stay put

brick by bick they're falling down
the cement of your mind can't hold tight
enough to save your life
from being blown away by its own light

 /2011.12.14. at around 8:35 am, sitting on the tram/

"Being lonely's only fun in a group"

I haven't been here for a long time because it's been a while since I last read anything in relation to insanity. But I thought this video would fit the concept of my blog, so it would be a mistake not to write a post about it. Apart from the fact I love the band, the voice of the singer, her style (extreme hair ftw), the energy, and the video of the song, the lyrics are amazing too. Not only because I can connect it to my own life, but also because it describes something that our society is most permeated with: superficiality. A lot of (btw lucky) people have no idea about what insanity is like, but they label themselves with eating/personality/psychiatric disorders, not knowing from where the serious issue starts, not knowing how sad it is that they resort to diagnosing themselves as being bipolar and alike because they crave attention. (Of course I'm not saying that everyone who says he is sick does this, but it has certainly become a trend on the internet for instance.) It is sad that they blame their weaknesses on their health, that they feel they have to search for some kind of excuse because of which they can't function properly, because of which they can't fit society. 

And the saddest part is that they don't know how empty their sickness is. It's all about being catered for, felt sorry for, seeking attention and pity love. It has lost its meaning, just like everything nowadays. They don't feel the horror. The loss of floor from under their feet. The never-ending darkness.

There might have been a time when I made the same mistake. But you know what? It's not me who is sick, abnormal, borderline, or whatever. Not you. Not us. It's 

*narrator getting dragged away*

Last Injection

Hey there, my dearest patient, can you imagine? We have arrived to our last session of treatment. The last dose of lithium. After that, life will test your regained sanity. Don't worry, if you fail, the Asylum will wait for you with wide open arms...

As I don't want to load you with anything burdensome in our last meeting, I'll treat you with some diluted material, lest the sharp needle should pierce the fragile bubble of your mental health and break it into little pieces again.

First, let's take a look at "The Maniac" by William P. Tappan:

Those eyes that beam so beauteous bright,
And all the heaven within declare,
May set ere long in starless night
Or kindle with demoniac glare.

The thrilling voice, oft heard to bless,
Whose accents memory would prolong,
May tell the story of distress,
Or warble sorrow's broken song.

That heart where feeling holds its throne,
Which fondly beats to love and me,
Cold as the unsunned marble stone,
May lie in frigid apathy.

Lord of all good! thy fiat spake
To birth, the blessings that I have;--
Lord of all worlds! 'tis thou canst take
Again, the boon that mercy gave:

Take all, but hear my earnest prayer,

'Tis breathed in tears, reject it not, --

Take all--but let me never share

The hopeless, soulless MANIAC'S lot.

The interesting thing about this poem is that it is the complex and expressive imagery of contrast that representst both the shield against becoming a maniac and the symptoms of insanity. Just look at all these conflicting words: "beauteous bright" vs "starless night," "heaven" vs "demoniac glare," "heard to bless" vs "broken song." These phrases stand against each other as sanity and insanity oppose each other as well. And as in case of a healthy state of mind the heart "fondly beats to love," when one loses one's mind, the same heart is locked in "frigid apathy." Could the writer have been a fool for offering happiness and light just in order to remain sane? No, because whereas someone can see even in the dark if their mind is clear, a lunatic is lost in his/her inner darkness, no matter how brightly the sun shines. If we look at the price of exchange from this point of view, we can understand why mental clarity is more important for the poet than the physical one; why the stability of the inner world bears always greater significance than the stability of the outer world.

"Insanity" by Maxwell Bodenheim

Like a vivid hyperbole,
The sun plunged into April's freshness,
And struck its sparkling madness
Against the barnlike dejection
Of this dark red insane asylum.
A softly clutching noise
Stumbled from the open windows.
Now and then obliquely reeling shrieks
Rose, as though from men
To whom death had assumed
An inexpressibly kind face.
A man stood at one window,
His gaunt face trembling underneath
A feverish jauntiness.
A long white feather slanted back
Upon his almost shapeless hat,
Like an innocent evasion.
Hotly incessant, his voice
Methodically flogged the April air:
A voice that held the clashing bones
Of happiness and fear;
A voice in which emotion
Sharply ridiculed itself;
A monstrously vigorous voice
Mockingly tearing a life
With an unanswerable question.

Hollowed out by his howl,
I turned and saw an asylum guard.
His petulantly flabby face
Rolled into deathlike chips of eyes.
He bore the aimless confidence
Of one contentedly playing with other men's wings.
He walked away; the man above still shrieked.
I could not separate them.

 The first thing that struck me about this poem is the time is April, which we might call the month of the fool because of April 1th. The expression "sparkling madness" is also worth mentioning, because as opposed to the dark, hopeless quality of insanity depicted in Tappan's poem, the world "sparkling" suggest liveliness, light, and joy; another side of lunacy, which is not paralyzingly ominous, but deliberatingly gleeful. Also, at first the narrator only hears voices, shrieks; then the colors become important ("red insane asylum," "jauntiness," "white feather"). The whole atmosphere is quite creepy, though, because the patients are all passive, whereas the guard can "play with other people's wings," in which metaphor the "wing" might indicate that the people, who are controlled by the asylum guard, are all cuckoos.

"Porphyria's Lover" by Robert Browning

THE rain set early in to-night,
    The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
    And did its worst to vex the lake:
    I listen'd with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
    She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate
    Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
    Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
    And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
    And, last, she sat down by my side
    And call'd me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
    And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
    And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
    And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me—she
    Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
    From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
    And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
    Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
    For love of her, and all in vain:
    So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I look'd up at her eyes
    Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipp'd me; surprise
    Made my heart swell, and still it grew
    While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
    Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
    In one long yellow string I wound
    Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
    I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
    I warily oped her lids: again
    Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untighten'd next the tress
    About her neck; her cheek once more
Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss:
    I propp'd her head up as before,
    Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
    The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
    That all it scorn'd at once is fled,
    And I, its love, am gain'd instead!
Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how
    Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
    And all night long we have not stirr'd

    And yet God has not said a word!

  This last poem, written by the pre-raphaelite Robert Browning was written in the Victorian era, so it's no wonder that the narrator of the poem is also insane. Just think about the madwoman in the attic in Jane Eyre, or Catherine's dementia in the Wuthering Heights. In this poem, the protagonist loses his mind and kills his lover with her own hair, and then proceed living without a touch of guilt. What is more, he puts the responsibility on God, saying it not his own fault that he killed his lover, but God's because he "has not said a word."

That's all for know, my dear patient, I hope you had a good time and your precarious sanity has also become a bit more secure. And don't forget that you are welcomed any later time should you want to come back.

So long and thanks for all the fish!

Joanne Greenberg: I never promised you a rose garden

Hey there, dear bedlamite, I'm glad you're back to take your next dose of lithium. Any improvements since we started the treatment? Hallucinations? Paroxysm? Side effects? It's horrible?? Well, I never promised you a rose garden...

Neither did Joanne Greenberg, so I really don't know why I expected this book to be so great. Partly it is, partly it isn't; anyway, let's get down to business. I never promised you a rose garden by Joanne Greenberg is about a schizophrenic teenager girl, Deborah Blau, who spends three years at 'That Place,' that is, a mental hospital, treated by the competent and sympathetic psychiatrist from Germany, Dr. Fried. 

One of the reasons why I liked the book is that the protagonist's illness is portrayed in an extremely detailed and elaborate way. Deborah doesn't simply hallucinate; she built up a whole new dimension inside her head, called Yr, a kingdom with its own gods, rules, and language. Completely detached from reality, the girl not only has problems feeling what "normal" people feel (such as the pain of burning and cutting oneself), but also distances herself from the English language. She thinks in the language of Yr, which has the capability of expressing things in a more focused way than English does, and, therefore, she often has a hard time trying to find the exact English counterparts of her fictional language. Difficulties of translation and this language barrier becomes one of the most dominant platform of her madness and her isolation from the world of the sane.

The layers and steps of her illness are complex, integrated in her very identity and origin. The first one was having a tyrannic grandfather, who dumped all his long-lost demands on his little grandchild, implanting the thought "You are not of them" in her head. The second one was the racism she had to encounter because of her Jewish origin, proving what great an impact racial prejudices can have. The third door leading towards dementia was having a sexually repressed father, who even though did nothing, but still couldn't hide the arousel his own daughter stimulated in him. These three steps caused her to turn towards an inner dimension, a world where she could ignore reality, where she could cling to life through being insane. Sounds like a paradox, but if you had to choose between the hell of reality, a suicide attempt, or a world made up in your mind, where you live with creations who accept and understand you without conditions, maybe you would make the same decision.

The oxymoron of staying alive through insanity is not the only thought-provoking element in the novel. Another intriguing line in the plot is the effect the inmates have on their doctors. Some of them hate the patients, some of them even get "infected" by the illnesses they are supposed to cure, while others manage to remain completely empathic and even make the ill happy by their never-ending enthusiasim. This proves what a thin line distinguishes mental health from lunacy, and how people can make others suffer even more just because they are afraid of becoming the same. How people can hurt others just because they remind them of themselves.

Language is not only important because of the Yri language made up by Deborah. It is also relevant because of the different names for insanity. Namely, there is a hierarchy of them: the most severe words, such as sick, crazy and insane can only be used for the patients of D (standing for 'disturbed') ward, whereas the more playful ones, such as cuckoo, nuts, and cracked are used when referred to the inmates of B ward. Some phrases are created by the mentally ill, these are "nutty as a fruitcake" and "bats," shortened from "bats-in-the-belfry." The latest means that "up in your head, where the bells ring, it's night and the bats are flying aroung, black and flapping and random and without direction." It is reassuring to see how even in the darkest places of mind humor and games of language can still work.

The title of the book is uttered by the doctor, Dr. Fried, when Deborah tells her that fighting for sanity might not be worth it at all. After all, "what good is your reality, when justice fails and dishonesty is glossed over and the ones who keep faith suffer." In response, the psychiatrist tells her how reality is imperfect, too, but how boring life would be if we didn't have to struggle for anything, but how you have to put up with the bad side in order to see the beauties of the world.

In the end, Deborah makes up her mind. She is capable of feeling pain again, laughing againg, and she says goodbye to Yr without grudges.

What is your choice?

Kay Redfield Jamison: An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Mood and Madness

Dear Patient, welcome back, I hope you'll have a nice Easter and your chocolate eggs won't fall off of your cuckoo's nest. However, before sprinkling lithium on girls and getting down to clean the house of all the dementia of winter, let me talk about an "unashamedly honest" memoir of manic depression, namely, An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Mood and Madness by Kay Redfield Jamison.

Manic depression, which is also called bipolar disorder, is a mental illness in which the patient experiences cyclical periods of mania and depression. The characteristics of mania are heightened and accelerated thinking and speaking, sudden and extreme enthusiasm for countless new ideas, lavish spending of money, energetic and passionate behaviour to the point of exhausting others, lack of sleep, rage, irritability, losing control over one's temper. However, by the time the patient should get down to work on his/her thousands of new ideas, depression takes over, and with it all of its numbing symptoms: fatigue, lack of motivation, loss of sexual desire, disturbance in concentration, tiredness, obsession with death, suicidal thoughts, inability to see the future and hope, and in most severe cases, delusions and hallucinations.

It is this sickness from which the writer of the memoir suffers. Jamison tells about her first symptoms and encounters with this disorder, her unwillingless to recognize that something is wrong, her refusal to take the medicine, all of the ups and downs of her illness in an honest and profound way. The main problem, as she wrote, is that "no pill can help me deal with the problem of not wanting to take pills;" that is, those suffering from manic depressive disorder refuse to take the medicine that would save their lives. Why is that? First, because of the side effects: nausea, vomiting, lack of coordination, torpid senses and feelings, depressed spirit, inability to read long texts, mental fatigue, etc. Secondly, it holds back all the psychotic zeal of the maniac periods, which seems as if the patient were deprived of his/her fountain of creativity and innovation. But there's a third reason, which might be the most difficult to break for psychological reasons: the fear that if lithium doesn't work either, the patient loses his/her last hope. However, Jamison had to learn the hard way that taking lithium is a must; an unsuccessful suicide attempt made her realize that she can't survive without taking her medicine.

The peculiar thing about the author is that she herself is a victim and a doctor of manic depression at the same time. She has always been interested in medicine, but, strangely, she didn't recognized her own symptoms when studying about psychiatry. Later, she decides to found a department for treating mentally ill people at UCLA (from where she graduated). She also successfully participates in writing medical essays and articles and attending conferences dealing with mental illnesses. Of course, she was afraid that she wouldn't be granted a medical license because of her illness, but her competence and power to overcome her psychosis didn't let her down. What is more, soon after the publication of her memoir, she was added to the list of best American doctors.

The two things that helped Jamison in her gravest periods of depression and mania are art and love. When researching about manic depression, she found out that several of the most famous composers and writers of were suffering from the same illness; for example, Lord Byron, from whom the quotation at the beginning of the book is cited. As far as love is considered, even though the author wrote that "no amount of love can cure madness or unblacken one's dark moods," she does admit that it was love that brought her back to life after the most severe and hopeless periods of depression; it was love that let her see the light in the chasm of blackness and what kept her going when she thought she has lost all her will to live.

Jamison's memoir is undoubtedly a worthwhile read. It opens the reader's mind and lets him/her into her own, allowing a glimpse of golden associations to come to life. It helps the reader understand that just because someone is insane, it doesn't mean that they are incurable and unsuitable for life. It doesn't mean that they are not human and don't have a right to live like normal people. On the other hand, they might see things that sane people couldn't even imagine, and into which they might gain and insight if they approach the mentally ill with patience and empathy.

Jean Rhys: Wide Sargasso Sea

Hey there, chirping cuckoo, welcome back to the Asylum. This week's dose of letters is provided by Jean Rhys's Wide Sargasso Sea, a novel that serves as a backstory for Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. In this novel, the reader can gain a profound insight about how Thornsfield's "madwoman in the attic," Rochester's wife, the Jamaican creole Antoinette Cosway ended up in England. Even though the writer's style can't compare to the gripping, Victorian original, the book is certainly a useful reading for anyone who is fond of Jane Eyre and is curious about the gloomy secret of Thornfield.

What makes this novel credible and effective is the narrative technique. Namely, the story starts with Antoinette telling about her days of adolescence in Jamaica and her mother's going mad. Part II is narrated by Rochester before and after about his wedding with Antionette (whom he later christens Bertha), with a small intermezzo told by the wife. Finally, Part III takes place in Thornfield, by the time Antoinette has become the "madwoman in the attic," and is told by her nurse and herself. This fragmanted structure underpins the plot because the contrast in the tone and voice of the characters also uncovers the differences in their mental state. Whereas in Part I Antoinette is merely a witness of what she will have to endure and writes in a slightly inconsistent and confusing way, in Part II Rochester can see the signs of inherited peculiarity in her eyes and writes in a coherent an easily understandable manner. It is through his eyes that we can see how the girl goes mad, as a result of which the man's love turns into hatred. By the time the narration switches back to Antoinette in Part III, her sanity is completely lost. She doesn't believe that she is indeed in England, and she perceives the house as a "cardboard box."

The transformation of Rochester's and the "mad girl's" relationship also portrays the process of Antoinette's falling to dementia in a realistic way. At first Rochester seems to love her unconditionally, begging her not to leave him when she wants to call off the wedding. However, later they exchange roles; it is Antoinette who loves Rochester and the man wants to escape. But his strong hatred, anger for being deceived, and desire for revenge keeps her beside the mad woman, hindering her from even the hope of a happy life: "She is mad, but mine, mine."

It is also remarkable how traits of Jane Eyre have been woven into the plot. For example, we learn that the house of Antoinette's family burnt down, and this memory later led her to set fire on Thornfield. We can hear the madwoman's thoughts and pictures of her troubled mind right before the tragedy. And, knowing the premises and her motives, it's not so hard to understand her anymore. Perhaps that is the biggest shot of the whole novel: by turning the point of view upside down, by taking a temporal circle, it manages to evoke empathy and compassion in the reader towards a character who was depicted as an obstacle of the happiness of our beloved Jane Eyre.

Susanna Kaysen: Girl, Interrupted

Welcome back, dear inmate, I hope this new piece of interruption will not cause any permanent damage in your mind. The subject of this week's post is the book Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen. The autobiographical novel gives a credible account about the author's experiences with her mental illness and about her staying in McLean Psychiatric Hospital.

The first thing worth taking a closer look at is the title itself. Not only is the title interrupted by a comma in the middle, but the whole narration is fragmanted, sometimes underpinned, other times contradicted by the official documents about the protagonist's health state. The title also refers to the 18-month interruption spent at a mental hospital at the beginning of Kaysen's adult life. Furthermore, she admits to have an obsession with tunnels, the tunnels of the asylum, and her notion about "the world [having] been reduced to a narrow, throbbing tunnel." Tunnels connect two separate places by interrupting both of them, and someone who goes into a tunnel is surrounded by darkness, having the illusion of going somewhere but without any idea about what's on the other side. The life of the patients is also interrupted by regular "checks" of the staff, in every 5-15-30 seconds, even at night. They even contemplate whether certain actions (like sex) could fit between two interruptions. The metaphor of interruption also appears in the arrangement of the room in the hospital. Whereas the room of the staff are on the right side, the patients live on the left, lunatic side of the building.

The protagonist is diagnosed with personality disorder, which she connects to her feminists viewpoints. According to the official documents, this illness is "most commonly diagnosed with women," and its symptoms, such as "compulsive promiscuity," instability of self-image, or binge eating are also associated with female behaviour. Kaysen supports her opinion by stating that these things wouldn't be considered problematic in case of a man.

The author describes her mental instability by a variety of pictures and methods. For example, like Charlotte in The Yellow Wallpaper, she also has a problem with patterns: "When I looked at these things, I saw other things within them." Likewise, her complicated relationship with her body also illustrates her troubled mind. She depicts her tongue as "a vast foreign object in [her] mouth," and she questions her own existence and animateness when she's scratching her wrist to make sure that her bones are there under her flesh, even though she can't see them. The intriguing thing about bones is, however, is that it's all that's left for the inmates of the mental institution, still it's the very same thing she can't find: "Our privacy, our liberty, our dignity: All of this was gone and we were stripped down to the bare bones of our selves." This proves that her lack of confidence concerns not only the reality of the outside world, but the reality of inner world as well.

The writer also successfully presents mental problems with a simile of physical illness. She writes that the intangible bundle of her thoughts is like the flue, because "the first thought triggers the whole circuit: [...] first a sore throat, then, inevitably, a stuffy nose and a cough." She underpins her reasons for self-mutilation, too, in relation to her precarious world view:  "I got a gruesome satisfaction from my sufferings. They proved my existence." 

Kaysen often laments the loss of time spent during interruptions. She knows that it's lost forever, still wants to know the amount of it, even in the case of such a trivial act like the pulling out of a teeth. It's crucial for her that in the darkness of doubts about herself and the whole world, at least time could be known to be real.

The book was adapted into a movie in 1999, starring Wynona Rider, Angelina Jolie, Whoopi Goldberg, and Brittany Murphy.

Ken Kesey: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

"Wire, briar, limber lock,
Three geese in a flock,
One flew east, one flew west,
One flew over the cuckoo's nest."

Welcome back to the Asylum, I hope you're all having a great time bathing in the sunrays of spring. In such a nice weather, even the chance of recovery seems brighter and more realistic. Not so much the case for the inmates of the mental hospital in Ken Kesey's One flew over the cuckoo's nest. At least, not in the beginning..

The way in which this book is different from the earlier ones is that it is not about the actual process of going crazy. This novel is beyond that; the story takes place in a mental institute, in a "cuckoo's nest," and the characters are vegetating in the hopelessness of ever going back to the world of the sane. They are completely isolated from the outside world: instead of sunshine, they perceive fog, wrapping around their mind to keep it under lunacy; instead of caring doctors and nurses, they have the Big Nurse, Miss Ratched, who is terrorizing and manipulating everyone in the ward; instead of hope and humanity, they live in a machine-like state of life. However, when the new patient, Randle McMurphy arrives, things change. He detects right the first day the intolerable conditions of what's going on in the institution. Not letting the Big Nurse break him, he is doggedly striving to wake the other patients up from their slumber of half-death.

The impact of his endeavors can be most distinctly seen in the case of the narrator, from the perspective of whom the story is told, Chief Bromden. In the first half/two-third of the story, Bromden pretends to be deaf, as a result of which he is hardly present and serves only as an observer, as if he were half-dead. Nevertheless, thanks to McMurphy, he is gradually gaining his voice back and comes back to life.

The leading metaphor that pervades the whole novel is that of The Combine. Bromden identifies society as The Combine, a huge machine, that sends out impulses, controls everyone around, conquers and destroys humanity, and liquidates those who are not suitable for the outside world. It can also illustrate modernity with its mechanization, the USA itself annexating the land of his father, consumer's society. Anything that deprives social rejects and rebels of their rights in order to keep the machine working smoothly. This machine-like worldview appears also when the narrator describes Nurse Ratched as a huge truck that puffs out smoke and can't be stopped, and in his nightmare, in which people themselves are merely mechanical objects themselves and when stabbed, their bowels give out metal junk instead of blood.

Contrarily to this soullessness stands McMurphy's attitude towards the power of laughter. Even when he first appears, he shocks everyone with his loud guffaw because they hadn't heard that joyful voice for ages. One of the most touching scenes of the book relates to this motif as well; when several of the patients go fishing together with McMurphy, the ice finally breaks. The awkward situations and the ridiculous lack of competence caused them to burst out laughing; and that minute, they won. From that point, they are capable of laughing, by this driving the Big Nurse crazy and keeping themselves sane. They became human again.

Of course, they will still not be perfect, but McMurphy helps them realize that just because they can't fit in, it doesn't mean that they are insane. It's just "He who walks out of step hears another drum."

Disturbia

Welcome to my head. Oh come on, what’s with that surprised look? Maybe you didn’t expect this? Yeah, you can’t tell by my appearance that my mind is a real beast. Do I look scary with a bloody knife in my hand, with eyes glowing with insanity, with a gaping hole where my heart used to be? Don’t be shocked, after all, you were the one who helped my mind to victory. You can’t have reckoned with my going disturbed. Still you proved I shouldn’t have listened to my heart again, that it decoyed, humiliated me.

So, to prevent it from betraying me one more time, I exterminated the root of the problem. Do you think it was too much? Am I out of my mind? You’re wrong, I’ve never been more awake before. I’m finally not blinded by emotions, I can see with my mind’s eye exactly who you really are, that you’re a coward, a liar, a traitor, someone to be detested. Oh, you don’t like my opinion? What did you expect me to do? To look for the day to see you again after you have been pretending ignorant for years? You’re even naïve. But you can’t outdo me, not at all.

Anyway, it’s time for revenge. I have already shown my heart how someone who hurts me ends up, now it’s your turn. Oh, you’re not afraid, are you? Shall I feel sorry for you? Sorry, I don’t have anything to do it with. You see, the little bastard is rotting here in my hand. How innocent it is, now, that it doesn’t beat anymore, isn’t it? It’s powerless, defenseless, just like I was when I let it poison my blood, and, together with it, my mind, But it’s over. It’s not pulsating anymore, it won’t start beating faster just because you’re close to me. Do you feel sorry for it? Here, you can have it. It has always been yours anyway, but now you can exhibit it as a trophy, with the title ‘How someone who falls for me ends up’. Feel fre to laugh with your buddies.

Oh, you don’t feel like laughing now? It’s a pity, because I’ve just found a great new form of fun for you. And you don’t even have to lift a finger. I’ll simply show you the uplifting freedom caused by the lack of my heart. Don’t you want me to? Oh come on, don’t be afraid, it won’t hurt. You won’t feel anything, could you want any better gift? You’ll still have your thoughts, of course, but they won’t be blurred by feeble human feelings. You would like to remain human? Why, am I not? You’ve got a point. I don’t feel like one anyway. Yeah, I can read your thoughts from your face, I’m rather like a zombie with the amount of life you’ve left in me.

Would I be a monster? Just because I want revenge? Still, you see, I only want to help with this. Of course, with such an empty heart like yours, it is possible that nothing will change. Let’s see, what I shall rid you of. Your brain? Why, you don’t use it anyway. Your soul? That’s not my style. You know what? I won’t change anything. Not as if you were so damned perfect. I just have a better idea. I’d rather make you want to get rid of your feelings, thoughts, dreams, the voices in your head yourself, push you to the edge of madness due to the fact that you’re a human. You will be begging for me to look at you, to leave you alone, to get out of your head, your nightmares, but I won’t, only when you are ready for the freedom I indulge in now. And I’ll be enjoying every minute of torturing you. You will curse the day when you met me.

Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t want you to hate me. I guess it’s a little late for that. Hate yourself.. Just like I was blaming myself when I should have been blaming you all along. I want you to know how it feels like to watch your own execution. As your own hangman. What a show it will be…! I’ll be watching it from the first row, and I will collect your drained blood to get a taste of what others call life.

Sylvia Plath: The Bell Jar

Hey there bedlamite, I'm glad to see you smiling, does the lithium work? Great. Even the sun is shining, we can feel the first touches of spring carressing our skin. How delightful! If you behave, we can go out, out of the snowy prison of our mind to have a breath of fresh air, but at first let's see today's dose of remedy.

Sylvia Plath's semi-biographical novel, The Bell Jar was published under the pseudonym Victoria Lucas in 1963. The protagonist, Esther Greenwood is about to have the world as her oyster: she has won an internship at a prestigious magazine in New York and with it the opportunity to attend galas, receptions, fashion shows, and so on. However, she feels out of things, so she decides to go home to Boston. The first sign of her imminent madness might be when she throws out the contents of her wardrobe, piece by piece, "in the dark heart of New York", the night before she is leaving the metropolis. Arriving home, she decides to write a novel but feels literary blocked, incapable of writing. Insomnia and lack of appetite are her next symptoms, and once she even thinks of choking her own mother because she is so irritated by her continuous snoring. Soon she is assigned to Dr Gordon, whose negligence results in an error in the electroconclusive therapy applied on Esther. Gravely affected by the "shocking" experience, she starts diving deeper into her depression, and makes several suicidal attempts. She tries hanging, drowning, and cutting herself, unsuccessfully. Finally, she takes her mother's pills and a glass of water, hides in a crack opening from the cellar, and swallows the pills one by one. She passes out as the silence, "at the rim of vision, gather[s] itself, and in one sweeping tide, rush[es her] to sleep."

She wakes up to realize she has been hospitalized, but she is not happy about surviving her suicide mission. She is acting hostile towards her mother and the nurses. The wathershed might be her acquaintance's, Joan's arrival, at whom she looks with compassion and suspicion at the same time. At times she is so filled with doubt about what to think about Joan, that she fancies the girl is merely a product of her imagination. Nevertheless, thanks to the this time properly administered electroshock therapy, Esther steps on the way of recovery. Her determination to recuperate may be enhanced by Joan's sudden suicide as well. The book ends with a prosperous scene, as Esther is proceeding towards the room where the question of her release is to be discussed.

The protagonist of The Bell Jar is a young girl who suffers from clinic depression generated by disillusionment in the hopelessness of life, and indifference to the outer world. She identifies her illness as a bell jar that doesn't let her breathe fresh oxygen, so she is "stewing in [her] own sour air." She has won several scholarship, she is clever and talented but feels entrapped in a world where she can't follow all her dreams and can't become a free writer and woman.

Plath's expressive imagery brings the novel to life. Starting from the metaphor of the bell jar, which Plath effectively stretches onto both the mental and the physical world ("to the person in the bell jar, [...] the world itself is the bad dream", or the one mentioned previously, in which the psychologically pictured bell jar has a contaminating effect on air itself), the author depicts the choices of her life as a fig tree, with several, unique fruits, but she's paralyzed by her unwillingness to make a decision. The glassy texture of the bell jar appears at other times as well. For instance, in the glass-eye of a nurse, the "glassy surface of [her] brain", and the "glassy haze" that she can see the night she wants to drown herself. Another recurring metaphors of the novel are shells and pebbles, which symbolize Esther's own fragmented, shipwrecked life.

The novel was adapted into movie in 1979, and a remake is going to be released in 2012, starring Julia Stiles as Esther Greenwood. Let's hope for the best; namely, that the cure will prove to be successful and you will be perfectly healthy by then. Take care.

Mad Girl's Love Poem
Sylvia Plath
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Henry James: The Turn of the Screw

"Welcome to where time stands still
No one leaves and no one will
Moon is full, never seems to change
Just labeled mentally deranged"
/Metallica - Welcome Home (Sanitarium)/

Now, that James Hetfield has done the greetings for me, let me begin this week's dose of antidote for sanity with a foretaste of what's to come. As the fact that I opened the treatment with a few lines of lyric suggests, I will bring some music therapy for you. May all our senses contribute to our brain's derailment from its rational route.

After this little sneak peek, we can get down to work. This time, The Turn of the Screw by Henry James is on the menu. What kind of a dish is that, you ask? Twisting.. creaking.. ghostly.. gloomy... and spooky.. Mouth-watering, isn't it?

The title itself is quite significant. It is mentioned only a few times in the whole novel, and those instances create a frame. Namely, when the phrase first appears in one of the dialogs, the screw is only about to commence its way into the woodwork of the story, whereas near the end, it is already tightened to its place. In between this frame and throughout the narrative, several turns lead towards the tragedy of the last chapter. The most important of them is, perhaps, uttered in the following sentence: "What a dreadful turn, to be sure, miss! Where on earth do you see anything?" The reason why this particular change of course might carry special importance is that this is the first occasion, when the reader has doubts about the credibility and sanity of the governess, the protagonist (whose name, most peculiarly, is hidden throughout the whole book).

However, Mrs. Grose, the main character's friend continues to believe her. She might do so because she trusts adults more than children - what a petty mistake this can become -, or because she's under the spell of the governess's manipulation. It is surprising how skillfully the protagonist uses the wits that have left for her. Not only does she color her fancies and the materializations of her imagination to a great extent, but she doesn't even realize how many times she's lying. In addition, she learns to get hold of people and have them do what she wants with her gift of the gab. It's as if by letting herself go, which she often refers to as something she must do -, she can get to others. Losing control over herself gives her control over other people. In fact, so much control that she can't even handle it, and she ends up using it in the most dreadful way.

Nonetheless, the question of why the governess is seemingly going mad is still unanswered. And, most importantly, why are ghost the subject of her hallucination? The best answer I can think of is that she was so terrified by the letter telling about the little boy's dismissal from school that her unhinged mind could bear it only by putting the blame on the dead; for instance, on late Mr. Quint and Miss Jessel.

That's all for now, dear patient. One last piece of advice: keep your screwdriver at hand. You can never know when you have to unscrew a screw so that it wouldn't fasten your brain to the wicked, screwy corner of your skull.

Edgar Allan Poe: The Fall of the House of Usher

Good Morning, dear tenant, I hope you had a good night filled with demented nightmares and demons driving you literally crazy. Now, let us continue our tour here, in the Asylum.

The subject of our next stop is the House of Usher. Or, to be more precise, The Fall of the House of Usher. The title refers to the place where the two main characters fall into insanity. A thought-provoking parallel can be drawn with Charlotte's Yellow Wallpaper for two reasons. For instance, a physical object, in this case, a house represents the state of mind of its tenant in Poe's short story as well. Furthermore, just as Charlotte was obsessed with the lack of order in the pattern of the wallpaper, the protagonist of this story is bothered by the perplexing arrangement of the furniture in the house, by the dark draperies, and the fretted ceiling. This atmosphere of dissonance infected him with gloom and fear.

What I'm interested in, however, is why the mad notice the software errors of their mind in the physical world first. Is it because as they are falling deeper into insanity, their senses trick them and they see the flaws, stains, and holes of their mental health materializing in tangible objects? Or is it because they are scared to face their madness all alone, only on a mental level, so they project it all out so that they could put the blame on reality? As if it were all the fault of a nauseating color, a creepy smell, and the fretted ceiling? Are they merely afraid to face themselves? If so, they might not be that different from their sane fellows after all..

Poe's piece of work is remarkable for the literary passages in it and their connection to the main topic. Both the poem and "Mad Trist" (mind the word describing both the characters' state of mind the book they are reading) of Sir Lancelot Canning reflect upon the mental derangement of Usher. (Another example of the author's linguistic virtuosity is the choice of the name of Usher's sister: Lady Madeline.)

Instead of analyzing the poem, let an excerpt from it stand for itself to illustrate its lacework of fantasy and reality, sanity and madness, fiction and nonfiction:

" V

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s high estate
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!);
And, round about his home, the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

VI
And travelers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows, see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid ghastly river,
Through the pale door,
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh—but smile no more."

If we scrutinize the excerpt from an artistic point of view, it is apparent what the author meant by "the monarch's high estate" or "a discordant melody".

From the aspect, of course, the house itself is a metaphor of Usher's mind, and the fall symbolizes the collapsion of his sanity. As far as the narrator is considered, he escapes just in time so that he won't be buried by the cutting fragments of Usher's mental health. What about you? Will you get sober just in time to get out of the way of the falling shards coming from the psychic eruption of your lunacy? We'll see.. Just stay here to keep the can of worms closed. Take care, dear bedlamite.

Charlotte Perkins Gilman: The Yellow Wallpaper

To start with, let us take a look around your room. Isn't this Yellow Wallpaper simply enchanting? Charlotte, the protagonist of the novel, found it repulsive. She was obsessed with its color, its disorder, its incongruence. She even said she could feel a yellow smell in the house. Can you believe that? What nonsense! Of course, you don't have to worry about your mental health. Charlotte was a grievous case. Her state deteriorated rapidly. You see, she suffered from postpartum psychosis, meaning she had hallucinations, delusions, fancy ideas, nervousness, irritability.. One could observe extreme switches in her mood.

Her thoughts were weird from the first moment, though. Hardly had she occupied the room when she noticed the oddity of the wallpaper. She personified it already then. Other parts of the chamber were flawed as well, but only the wallpaper bothered her. A peculiar love and hate relationship developed between them. She discovered a subpattern which changed with the light, and since this continuous transformation twisted her challenge even more, she was all the more perplexed. Still, her determination to make out some kind of order did not subside.

Her words sometimes foreshadowed her imminent collapsion; for example, she characterized the pattern as if it had delirium tremens, wich later turned out to be her own syringe of self-destruction.

Much as the mystery of the pattern wearied her, she couldn't stop focusing on trying to figure it out. The same obsession overcame her about writing; she had to keep expressing her thoughts. Strange to say, parallelly with her sane self pouring down on the paper, her insanity crept out of the wallpaper to dominate her.

With time, her fixation altered into a form of self-torture. She enjoyed getting lost in the disharmony of the wallpaper, especially because it made her feel strong and chosen. She fancied that no one but her could endure this ordeal; the fact that only she can see behind the front pattern made her feel unique.

As the days passed, she was falling deeper into dementia. The mere act of thinking tired her, and she stopped talking about her preoccupation taking it as a sign of her wisdom. By the time her husband, John said that her state is improving, her entrapped self had taken over control. With her hand on the wheel of Charlotte's sanity, she was leading her towards the edge of derangement. Another sign of her mental derailment, her relationship with her husband was affected severely. In the beginning, she didn't want to worry him. Later, she started to be afraid and suspicious of him, nurturing mistrustful feelings instead of tender ones. Furthermore, her senses became confused as well. She imagined feeling a "yellow smell" lurking around in the house and crawling into her hair.

Finally, when she saw the woman from her delusions creeping in the garden, Charlotte felt empathy towards her. This proves that they were equal, and the woman's state of mind degenerated into that of the ex-prisoner of the wallpaper. Enhancing the paradox, she tied her just unleashed personality so that she wouldn't escape; meanwhile she psychologically liberated herself, physically confined herself in the room. Fearing that they would take her out to the outside world, which is green, not yellow.

I partly agree with her. Don't you also think that this yellow color outshines the greenness of the grass, the trees, everything? I'm sure you'll enjoy your resort just as much as she did.. Sleep well.

Introductory Injection

Dear Visitor, let me assure you how delighted we are to greet you in our humble hospital. We will do our best to keep you entertained and to treat your desire for farewell. Please be as kind as to take a seat. Are you feeling comfortable? Good. Before giving you a dose of wonderland, we'll have to tie you up. Don't worry, it's a simple measure of precaution. Just a tiny sting, nothing else. No one has complained so far. On the count of three.. One.. Two... Aaand, we're done. It wasn't painful at all, was it? Feeling okay? Right. Come, sweetie, we'll show you around in your new home..