My Recent Vacations (part 3)

My Recent Vacations (part 3) In my most recent stay st the Russian government Psychiatric hospital, where again I signed in willingly preferring an approximate 30 day stay as compared to the 'against your will' three month 'grand tour' of boredom and poor fitting pyjamas, I was pleased to find in that small library, a book in English, as it helped pass the time. It was the second in the series 'The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo' 725 pages. I read it off and on in five days which pleased me even more as I have grown accustomed to the internet, with its bold headlines and articles that catch one's attention, at least mine, for the merest of minutes. So some of my earlier good habits, reading remain. I worry that my son, with cellphone glued to his hand will never attain this level of readership, indeed, we may be breeding a generation of idiots. I was sad when it was done, as the boredom returned. in a Russian state owned psychiatric hospital, you have two choices on how to spend your time, on your cot, which after decades ona proper bed, is to me, at least uncomfortable, or to talk endlessly the long stretch of corridor which affords one the chance to peek at the clock to see that another two minutes has passed. in order to entertain you, let me share with you the daily schedule. To wit: 7 a.m., lights on, wake up. Time to make one's cot in a ten man room, some tattooed, others like me, not. Just after 7 a lower level employee, cleaner or nurse, distributes the day's ration of cgarettes, ten. And this is only to those whose families have brought them these cancer sticks. The mass enthusiasm is appealing. Immediatey thereafter comes the first smoe break where approximatey 20 men huddle in a bathroom with three loos and a sink and an extremely large exhaust fan. I took up smoking out of sheer boredom at first borrowing cigarettes from an Uzbek named Bek, who slept most daysand a generous young Russian IT fellow named Artem. Mosly I learned I hate smoking, now as in my teenage years, so long ago. At approxiamately 9:30, the day's 2nd smoke break, this after the change of staff, which would require a headcount, each laying in his cot for the inspection by three lady psychiatrists, Alena Valerevna, the head psychiatrist and her two assistance, one, Olga, a dark haired beauty with light sinwho cauught my eye and another determined lookin redhead. All strutted about in high heels, which let one know when one was near, and established a sort of social order. They would speak with each patient for perhaps 30 seconds before making there way to the next one. Then Breakfast, always kasha, though of different sorts, sometimes a bonus yogurt would be provided. Often it was the best meal of the day. Then the first round of pills followed by the third smoke break. Russians often shared there cigarettes with each other. I began to notice the poor share more than the wealthy in this and in other matters. Profound. At least it seemed to me. Then freedom to pace the corridor, check the time, dodge others, have a chat with another perhaps, all dressed in the same unappealling pyjamas, most missing a number of buttons. 12:30 next smoke break. I admit I enjoyed the awful nicotine hgh at first, though it lasts so little, eyes and nose watering I would make my way to my cot and pull out a drawing of my son Nick and reflect on our two years together in America, I often think of these as the best two years of . I had gotten to be the father I never had. I was present, where he had a job as a pilot which required him away from home half the time, so I never really knew him as I might have liked to. Nick, my son, in contrast probably knows more about me and this damnable betrayal of his mothers' and the whole horrific targeting, hey lets kill Obama, install Biden, blame yours truly as patsy. Worked in 1963, why not 2014? I've written all about this in my blog, which facebook suspiciously bans. Funny that. Read if you dare. 24,000 have to date, no comments, not one, though I did receive a telling email from some drone at Langley, that oddly disappeared from my computer moments after reading it. He suggested I seek mental help and I'd be better off to return to the career I once enjoyed as a trainer, in his opinion. And to his first concern I have been adjudicated as 'normal' by a qualified psychiatrist in the US in 2014, when my head was spinning after divorce, and false death threat organized by my on again off again wife and her lover, all under supervision of the GRU in close coordination with the plan's originator, the foul CIA and the loss of my son for 14 months. I remain pleased to inform that cowardly though no doubt bright CIA email writer (the CIA does not hire idiots) that the Russian psychiatric world adjudicated me as 'normal'. His email, a poor attempt at a psyop, meant to manipulate me. F*** him. I've been f***ed with far better than he, and still survived, learned, and write about it. What does that even mean? 14:00 Lunch, mostly forgettable, lots of cabbage, and the occassional decent pea soup. Followed by line up for pills, then smoke break, the last until 5 pm. The time between the lunch smoke break and the 5 pm smoke break was the time I dreaded most, 'tichy chas' or quiet hour, lights out and all there is to do is to sleep in one's cot, or if a non day sleeper like me, to flip flop, then pace, though the corridor is for that time banned. Dinner, as memorable as lunch, 6 p.m. followed by smoke break, 7 pm phone calls for those who remembered to ask at the inspection. 8:30, light snack, more often cheese on a piece of dark bread, than the more preferable hard boiled egg, followed by final pills of the day, smoke break, lights out, and final smoke break at ten p.m. The day's final smokebreak at 10 p.m. The center of our social world. So disgusting in actuality. And this we knew, each and everyone of us, though some minded less than others.