And So I Got Taken in, Literally, Later Figuratively. Again, by Perps as I Remain a Target.

There is a Russian law, I think 323, which allows friends and family to use the court system of Russia to send people to a state run psychological hospital for an all expense paid visit for about a month at a go, assuming you go, 'voluntarily'.  Otherwise your in for at least 90 days of psychoactive pills and being watched over.  Or longer.  My record to date is 33 days, I blame this on my wife, her greed and other aspects of her personality.  

Once the overworked psychiatrists deem you 'normal' you are freed, given the clothes you came in with and once again a part of society.

Svetlana and her state paid shrink had me put away some 6 times in 2019 and 2020.  This was due to my lack of knowledge and being baited into arguments.  She also took advantage of a few moments I looked for the cameras in the apartment I bought in 2006, who surveil me now.

The state sends a truck nicknamed 'skori' short for fast help.  The workers are to my taste brutal and all too willing to get physical should you entertain the idea that you'd prefer not to join them.  Wire ties abound. 

Knowing that I was in for my 2nd visit I screamed, called all about me motherfuckers and stupid and worse and got assigned to spend a month in the upsetting yet eye opening schizophrenia section.  My poor behavior made me legend for a time and misunderstood for my entrance.  

The medical staff suspected what might account for my unruly behavior may be shizophrenia and later understood I was simply upset and vocalized those feelings.  As if it would do any good.  I assure you it did not.  But at the time it felt good and glad that I didn't refuse two days of chemically induced sleep.  Sleep is the one thing that speeds up time in a Russian state owned psychiatric hospital or to use simple jargon 'madhouse'.

They knocked me to sleep for two days which effectively shut me up and indeed calmed me down.  

When visiting a psych ward, state sponsored, there are rules.  All new guests wear white undergarments and stay in the first palace or 'palata' as they are known.  

Within 2 days I was moved in with the general population who could enter and leave their respective 'palatas' as they pleased.  And were given green, blue, or purple pajamas.  I preferred blue.  Most take longer for that transition from 1st palata.

The deputy chief psychiatrist took time to tell me one day, "Rick you are normal with extreme tendencies".   I had liked him and felt a sort of mutual respect.  I don't disagree with his assessment and remain beguiled at how little contact the doctors have with the patients but for a brief pre-breakfast tour as they make their rounds. And then what to me is shocking is what is to my mind the overprescription of anti-psychotic pills.  Had those on my first stay.  Became a lethargic, twitching mess.

They did catch that my red blood cell count was low so an iron pill for that.  On my last stay they tried a newer anti-psychotic called I think haliperidol. I was prescribed 6 pills day after meals. 

The first 4 of the day quietly made their way to the restroom while the two before bed helped me sleep. And when sleeping in a room of ten men no matter how few may snore I needed all the help I could get in this direction.

One unpleasant memory was that of a spry and to my mind, cruel young orderly who chose to repeatedly punch a man well into his 70s with failing memory for flailing about with another's possessions.  Overkill.  Disturbing.

I learned much of that unstoppable horror that is schizophrenia and how the medical establishment attempts to deal withis ever progressing disease.

The meals were bland but did not bother my stomach nervous a few years now since discovering our world patches together by lies and me, Targeted.  

Back to Jammies.  These were worn a week at a time until the end of the week when a shower and jammie change was offered.  You were also allowed to shave once a week.  

I noticed no foreigners, certainly no Americans, and most if not all Russians were economically disadvantaged.  That is to say poor.  Missing teeth.  A distinct lack of education was also notable.

The whole 'factory' if you will is designed to be an outlet of sorts for lower class social pressure with its attendant drinking, drug abuse, schizophrenia and perhaps some other aspects I now neglect.

I had, in retrospect, a crazy idea.  These low level boys took to me fairly well and some entered into discussions of narcotics, which since having left Denver in December 2016 to return to Russia I miss.  These boys even bragged how easily they might assist me in my quest to acquire good marijuana once released.  In time I'd learn liars all.  

Mostly it didn't work for reasons perhaps having to do with my ongoing police surveillance or perhaps not.  Or that these boys like many their age talk more than they deliver.  

One nugget named Misha, 28, drug user, poor teeth, optimistic personality, looked me out after our releases promising good weed fast delivery, fair prices.  All this in the land of Putin.  Misha let me down time and time again accumulating a 90,000 ruble debt for orders taken, never delivered, cost of taxis and bribes I paid to corrupt cops to keep him out of jail.  

I admit I had grown to like Misha and access to things forbidden.  Back to the closet they go and the money wasted, a lesson learned. 

Oh the cops must have had fun and then there is Svetlana, always knowing and wrapped up tight.  Poor her.  And would that I could I would howl over our lack of intimacy, not the physical lack, though we suffer in that regard as well, but the stuff that comes from sharing thoughts, hopes, dreams.  Ah Svetlana.  You will always be a Russian beauty even at ten years my junior.

Today is my first day at 56.  Let's see what tomorrow brings. My son Nick him at 20 is and was correct, we likely should not have reconciled with his mother and moved back to Russia from Colorado.  The air was better there as was the food.  

While in the psych ward I learned I am AIDS and Hepatitas free and wanted to follow the rope of being a Targeted Individual to its seemingly frayed end and was not disappointed.  Bored?  Severely.  Educated? Somewhat.

Each day one wakes at 7, makes one's bed and has the choice presented him most of the day, all days. The patient under observation may sit or lay on his bed or do aside preferred to walk up and down the corridor from which all other rooms grew.  

There is a stampede for half a box of cigarettes to get through the day for those so blessed.  Others must beg and wheedle a smoke.  

Then the first of ten smoke breaks each day.  I didn't smoke, ought not to now, but took part as those ten smokes a day were the nearest thing to socialization as 20 men, cramped in a 3 stall men's room, lit up.  Made me feel close to my faraway son, whose distance apart from me was known only to her.

As I didnt smoke I would get odd somewhat unpleasant short lived 'buzzes'.  I would imagine I was in a sort of camaraderie with my son put away incorrectly to a rehab center for the 2and time when all he wanted to do was return to America and start a life, perhaps join the Navy.  Our lives are somewhat aborted by life under corrupt FBI and CIA surveillance while Nick and I lived there as single father and teen son from late 2014 to late 2016.  His mother thinks differently.   I maintain polite relations as I see no other way knowing of her long term betrayal described in these blog posts.  That and her character.

I met several people in the psych ward, most of whom I kept my distance from.  They were all poor, some with drinking and drug issues, poor educations and careers ahead intended not to thrill but for the most banal.

While I was in a few of us spoke of our experiences related to narcotics, one very bright IT worker was tossed inside by his girlfriend and family so as to assist him in making a choice, normal life or one populated by narcotics.  He took his time deciding and went for the girl.  Bright boy.

Others offered once we were freed to assist me in my love of marijuana.  It worked once.  He'll remain nameless.

A friend of his whom I dont recall from my stay in the 3rd palata was as mentioned above, Misha, a 28 year old drug user and part time dealer.  Sort of my Russian Adam Stanhope without the with but with the striking similarity of working with and on behalf of corrupt police.

Misha now owes me in excess of 90,000 rubles for orders undelivered, taxi rides I paid for, and bits of rubles to keep him out of jail as he was according to him taken by the police twice with drugs in his possession.  They kept him a few days, worked him over, until he paid the appropriate bribe.  I am unlikely to see that cash or Misha now having figured out that which he was up to.

I have since cut all contact understanding that while it was nice to have a break from my mostly self imposed isolation, watching as one is being set up for arrest is no way to spend one's 50s.

And so like Adam Stahope before him I say goodbye Misha.  And not without a bit of regret.  No not the money though that would be nice.  Misha allowed me to play again at this game of being human.

And now at 56 as I was from 19 to my mid-30s and grade school before that, I am a drug free version of myself.  As an after thought I wish Misha well and wonder what choices he had.  Raised a Russian universe away.  A friendship false as have so many been since learning I was and remain Targeted.

Ah well yesterday for my birthday I received a smattering of congratulations and took son and wife out bowling where embarrassingly not one of us broke 100.  We later had rich chocolate cake my son was thoughtful enough to purchase.  Bowling in Coronavirus masks.  Like Misha, a thing best to be avoided.

Good bye Misha and the marijuana that was never to be. Weep.