My Recent Vacations, Continued

My Recent Vacations, Continued I learned more about the machine that is Russian State Psychiatry. It is a machine that needs to be fed, and I apparently have become something akin to raw meat. I don't like this analogy, but it is fair. My wife and I argue, she lies as she must, and I am forced to honesty, an unlikely marriage these 25 years later. I had no idea back then of the trap I had set myself into. She knew, was poor, and likely excited by the opportunity. I don't know, for she will never speak the truth. Upon leaving the Psychiatric Hospital, twitching and drooling, unable to sit still due to the anti-psychotic medication, no doubt I appeared as one in need. I took the opportunity to get sleeping pills, for I have had difficuty sleeping since reconciing with my wife, this a sign, ungood, Vopiclone. It works. I also asked for an anti-depressent, which became one of the biggest mistakes of my life, called Fevarin, worked for 7 months, coffee a bit stronger, me a bit lighter, then 3 months it did nothing. I stopped cold turkey. Wrong answer. I have consumed a number of drugs in my years, favoring marijuana over all for its effects, brightening my mood, and its reputed anti-cancer effects. Wonderful stuff, illegal here in Russia, sadly. I have never had a worse experience stopping a drug as I did with that anti-depressent, Fevarin. Stay away. Stay very far away. 7 times my diafram (sp? closed and I was left unable to breathe, punching myself in the chest to keep breathing. It was simply awful. I suffered odd hallucinations, seeing world maps on my plain green pants, as my brain realigned itself. THought I might be this way forever, and if so better to call it a day, to die. Then miracle of miracles, I awoke normal and have been ever since. So grateful. Began to think maybe I was shizoprenic, though this disease not comminicable. This brings me to the second time I had a vacation due to Svetlana resolving an argument via Russian law 323, having them cart me away. This time I went screaming, for I knew that for which I was about to approach. Because of my enending foul language, I was sent to the department 18, not 16 as the previous time, for this was where they put the hard cases, the shizophrenics. I there learned more about this disease than I ever wanted to learn. So awful, no recovery, the est one can hope for I was told is to limit its spread with pills. I calmed down, and became something of a legend about the place for my screaming English curse words. I avoided most due to my language limitations, Russian wears on me in long conversation. Most patients here older, and remarkably stupider than those economically disadvantaged poor souls in the 16th department. Sometimes at mealtime, that offered 3 times a day, I would have to avert my eyes from these intellectually unfortunate, as gazing upon them initiated a gag reflex. That is I sought to vomit. Sensitive sort, I. I gained a respect but for the phychiatrist prescribed pills. They put me on weaker anti=psychotics, and the drooling and feeling of stupidity disappeared, though leg tremors remained. I kept this to myself to avoid another pill tosort out the first pill. After a week or so, I found a way to dispose of these pills surreptitiously so as not to have them in my system. I felt like me again. The doctors never knew, and one told me, "Rick, you are normal" as to differentiate myself from the larger mass of inmates. The days boring and long, though I received visits from wife and son on the weekends, the high point of my weeks there. One thing I noted, was my reaction most visceral to my wife. She caringly brought me food, which as I say across from her I immediately vomited up. Was it this food simly more complex than the fare offered by the hospital, none of it requiring teeth as many clientele had none, or was it something on another level entirely, was I reading, that is feeling Svetlana, and her true self. Earlier as I learned I was targeted began to read people better, identifying most if not all the 19 undercover FBI agents when in Denver as we all lived in a single apartment complex, in their role in the coverup. Coy Ebell, I most recall, I jokingly called him 'sheriff' as his cover wore thin, his enthusiasm forced. i saw ths as a sort of laser visin seeing through people. I use it on my wife more often than not, as she has this particularly frustrating habit of lying, as she must. My Recent Vacations, Continued (part 2) I gained respect for the young doctors, Maxim and another. We shared a love of Deep Purple, and they were grateful for my English, that I was 'normal' which set me apart from most of their clients, even exchanging pphone numbers. THese boys so young, fit, playing guitar and drums (they shared with me a homemade video). They taught me about shizophrenia and have longer time on the phone than most. Once again I had something approaching friends, a social life, this I admit I enjoyed. My self imposed isolation can't be good for me, this I know, but my choices forced on me by circumstance. I learned my hemoglobin was low and so for this took the pill. And Svetlana, who cares for me as she can notified the head psychiatrist that I was having problems eating. They ran an ultrasound on me in addition to standard ex-rays, checking feces, urine and blood. His conclusion, I was nervous, and in this I think him correct. His name was Ruslan Sergeevich, shorter and younger than me, bespectacled and choosing to be bald. His intelligence was palpable. Each day he would visit each patient, spread across six rooms for 'obhod', the Russian term for inspection. He would ask how you were doing. I recalled my time in the military stood up straight, buttoned the shirt of my ill fitting pajamas and answer in Russian, 'normal', which is as it sounds. If I have a complaint about psychiatry, doctors are too eager to dish out psychoactive pills, with limited time to consult the patient. Giving strong anti-psychotics after reading a disgruntled wife's report and spending maybe five minutes with the target, oops, I mean patient, seems wrong, but I am no doctor, and my opinions are that of a layman. I no longer argue with Svetlana, fearing she will call upon Russian law 323 agan and again. This makes life, my life suffer, for we cannot speak honestly about the past, my targeting, and it makes me consider divorce. I care for her, I call this love, yet knowing of her earlier betrayals, cannot bring myself to touch her more than the occassional hug or kiss. This is not the adult life I expected or wanted. Yet we have a son, and in this I share something in common with her like no other. Ah to be a middle class American rat racing in a corporation. I am not that animal. I took steps to preclude that fate; I learned those steps were guided by some very dark types at CIA. Those stories as yet untold. Somedays I write, most days I don't. I've been told I have a book in me, the most I can muster is a blog and this CIA run social network called facebook. Funnily enough, Facebook blogs the blog address. Funny that, really funny, as though I have a chance of exposing what I learned and to change this world so corrupt. Ha. Writing for me is a sort of therapy. I long to communicate. I miss my brothers and sisters who chose loyalty to the police over our blood ties. I miss most my younger brother John. I appreciate still his last email to me, a huge clue in this isadvanture, when I asked him why my life had gone pearshaped. His one word answer, all capitalized and my last email from him, that in 2014, 'POLICE'. I have enjoyed living in Russia, even applying for a residency permit this week, pleased to have found I am HIV free, this something of a shocker as in my youth I spent a prestigious time at bordellos with prostitutes, sleeping with at least 400 of them, and in mymost debacherous, after the death of my mother and my introduction to speed, more than a few men in session after session of orgy, led by a man who never really liked me named Sergei. Funny to think we had sex, but him, a whore, it was all about drugs and money. I recall him fondly. He taught me more than a little, things I don;t use now, but memories remain. This I told not to the psychiatrist. Imagine what drugs they would have poisoned me with then...