We all have the potential for madness, but the degree of its manifestation is what really matters, in order to be considered as mental, or just slightly eccentric. The amount of crazy people though is very likely to be on the increase, considering the society in which we are living, not helped by the Corona crisis.
Some time ago, on a visit to a local pub back in Sheffield, to get a cup of coffee I noticed a teacher working at a local school talking with herself. Well, at least it appeared so, because despite my predisposition for what is medically known as hallucinations, I couldn’t spot anyone sitting next to her, and neither could the pub’s staff judging from their whispers.
“Look, look, she is talking with herself!” The waiters were obviously having a blast, and in all honesty, it looked very funny. The teacher was vividly gesticulating into the void and taking part in an animated dialogue with someone who was either invisible or a total illusion on her part. The hilarious part of it was that she was turning slightly to her right, as if indeed there was someone sitting next to her, and the scene looked surreal, as if we were on the set of a new episode of Harry Potter.
I have to admit that I also produced a couple of chuckles, because, first, well, it was quite comical, and secondly, I locked the eyes with the waiters who knew me quite well, and it would be impolite and rude not to join into the camaraderie building, even if admittedly it isn’t nice to laugh at the expense of another human being. But we all do it, despite the teachings of our parents and teachers (ironically so) to the contrary, and we all occasionally watch the funny bits on Facebook or YouTube where eager individuals upload the videos of people in funny distress. Did someone break their leg? Ha-ha-ha. Did he fall down the stairs? Ha-ha-ha. Was she just dumped? Ha-ha-ha.
Well, you know what I am talking about.
But once back at home I was quite sad that I had joined the laughing crowd, because the situation wasn’t that straightforward. You see, I had heard about that teacher. She was diagnosed as ”schizophrenic” when it appeared that the profession of a teacher wasn’t as glamorous as the government had promised, when she found herself dealing with challenging teenagers and often, ungrateful parents, a mortgage which she had to pay even if she lost her job, and two own daughters to raise in the hope that they would become responsible individuals and do well in life. Which in our society has been reduced to getting a job, a house, a husband and some sort of retirement. We have all the reasons to get mad, with the demands that we face in terms of how to be more or less successful in life. We are all victims of what is presented to us as ‘normality’, where watching something like a Big Brother is sold to us as a nice show to watch, where we are driven to build our lives around constant consumption, and where we are reduced to find a partner via an app.
But it wasn’t the knowledge of her personal circumstances which made me uncomfortable. It was the realisation that maybe it was us, the laughing public which had missed the obvious. What if, there was someone sitting next to her? I mean, how do we know? How come that we believe only what our eyes show us, and yet, buy in masses the most recent scam in the field of self-help? Why are we ready to spend a fortune on gurus telling us how to live our lives, and then laugh when we are confronted with a proof that there might be something else out there?
We should never laugh at the expense of others, because one day we can find ourselves on the other side, and then, it won’t be funny.
I was born in a beautiful world, in a beautiful country, in Russia. The country that saved the world at some point in human history. It is sad that it isn’t mentioned enough in history books, while it should be the case, of course, all the time. If you don’t know about it, I will tell you. It was during the Second World War, during the fight with the fascists.
My grand-parents fought in that war, and so many people suffered, too many. An incomprehensible number for a true human mind. 56 MILLION. The Jewish, the different, the Slavic race, and other beautiful souls. How could it have ever happened, is a question that I do ask myself each day, because history does matter, and it does matter to KNOW.
My family was absolutely amazing. I had a loving, very curious mum, a wonderful farther, and beautiful set of grand-parents on each side of my charming parents. I spent my summers in a Cossack village, because I have beautiful Cossack genes from my farther, and I travelled to St-Petersburg, called Leningrad at that time, with my mother, who came from aristocracy ancestors (a real catastrophe, that most of them they killed, but some of them survived, thanks GOD). She showed me beautiful museums and powerful paintings, and taught me history and maths. Maths wasn’t my favourite subject, but thanks to my mother I kind of survived the test nightmare of algebra and the like they impose on children in our modern schools.
The idyllic picture of my childhood was broken when something bad happened in my land. We can blame the capitalism (and easy prey), or we can skip all that critical thinking analysis and simply aim at the truth: bad people got greedy, and sold their souls to deprive my Russia from its true meaning: an amazing land, guided by goodness and God. Jesus watches this land, and so do I.
Gorbachev, the kind, beautiful man, tried to create something even more beautiful. He announced some important changes: freedom of speech (extremely important), Perestroika (I still struggle to translate this dilemma), etc, etc, etc. He wanted more good, he had a vision of communism, a term that we started to believe to fear, but in simple language, it just means: everyone is equal, everyone has the same rights, everyone should receive free medical care, have food on the table and receive education for free, and isn’t it wonderful?
Gorbachev wanted even more: he wanted to wake up people and show them that everyone can enjoy theirs jobs: be you a cleaner, a clerk, or a president. It doesn’t matter WHAT you do, what matters is that you enjoy what you are doing. With my extra superiors efforts in this life to survive, I think I deserve more money than a bad-mouthing former ‘neighbour’ who learned to envy success, but it means that I have even a better vision than Gorbachev,more in the lines of Tolstoy, our beautiful Russian writer. Leo Tolstoy, was a true aristocrat, a philanthropist, who wanted to see beautiful Russia, where kindness would rule, and everyone would have food on the table, and lead meaningful lives. If you haven’t yet read his books, I strongly advise you to correct this mistake rather urgently, and start with his diaries, and only after proceed to Anna Karenina, and leave ‘War and Peace’ till the end, once your master your French. It’s a read I successfully skipped at my literature lessons at school, because I didn’t speak French yet properly, and the rest what was left in Russian (‘War and Peace” is written in both Russian and French), told us about long war narratives, that I found boring. But the love story was amazing, and I read all parts related to that, and passed my literature exam with outmost distinction. At nights I was absorbing his diaries though,- beautiful notes, that I discovered by accident as it seemed, but of course, it wasn’t an accident, because good books always find their reader.
The dilemma of Perestroika resulted in a brain-damage. That’s the only term in English I can find to describe what happened next to my beautiful, unique country. But I will try to explain it in more accessible words.
There were kiosks at first, ugly corner shops selling Coca-Cola (the only nice thing), snickers, and cigarettes. My best friend and I, bought our first cigarettes there when we were just thirteen. No one was checking for age, and no one cared, as long as you had money and you could pay.
Then, even bigger things happened. Vouchers came out from the state companies for ordinary people to get their chance to own some assets in their own country. But the country was starving, because Boris Yeltsin was in power, having chased Gorbachev out of the regime, and out of Russia. I want to know how it could happen, and I tried, because I was watching what was happening to my country with a disbelief of a twelve, and then fourteen, and then fifteen, sixteen years-old mind, and I was watching how Kashpirovsky was allowed to go on the state TV and hypnotise the entire nation via a live transmission. I tried to warn my grand-mother, who, as many others, was watching that nonsense, an act of black magic, coming directly from those in power then. Kashpirovsky was telling: ‘everyone will be fine, and everyone won’t be fine’, confusing the entire beautiful land, and how this was allowed is beyond my beautiful mind, but I want to know how it was even possible. I want to KNOW the truth. Because history DOES matter, and we can never forget, in order not to repeat the mistakes of the humanity.
My grand-mother got gangrene after watching it, and died in pain and suffering some years later. That was the moment, outside the church when we said goodbye to her, that I run out and shouted to the sky, to God: ‘’what the fuck? How is it possible? Where are YOU?’’
But of course, God was watching, as he always does, because at the end of the day, goodness always prevails, otherwise, it isn’t possible to continue living, and the universe is doomed. And this simply can’t happen.
The vouchers were immediately bought back by what you know now as OLIGARCHS. Everyone was starving, no one had enough food. There was some promise of American food aid, that they send sometimes to deprived troops in the army, and we got it at school. I tried the sausages and dry milk, and it was disgusting. But it helped to live. I brought all my ‘American’ packages to my grand-mum, because she was starving, and she had sold her voucher back to the oligarchs because she didn’t have any money, as the rest of the nice, not that ordinary Russian population, for a penny.
Oligarchs were made, together with parlours of bad witches. It was all around Moscow, you have to believe me. Everywhere you looked, there was some advertisement: ‘a curse to ban your enemies’’, ‘I will help you to make even more money’, ‘I will bring you your lover back’. That was the moment when I vomited from my first cigarette, because it was the only thing that could help me to cope, with what was happening to Russia. People were shouting and people were crying. And I was shouted at and I was crying. My beautiful mother was in Italy then, because of some strange set of circumstances. I rejoined her when I went to study in Brussels, in French, at the age of nineteen.
Christian churches were opened though, including my favourite church, and it should be amazing and it should be unique, but money was being made on them too, and I almost stopped to believe, but I am not allowed, because God doesn’t let me. And I want to believe, because the idea to the contrary can’t be processed by my inquisitive mind. People were dying then in Russia, and everyone was miserable and upset, and it seemed like a fog, had embraced my beautiful land. Everyone was after apartments, where to get what one wanted, they were ready to put their relatives inside the psychiatric hospital. It was a legal procedure: you pay the ‘doctor”, he signs the letter, and then the poor distressed individual (usually an older relative) is driven inside a psychiatric hospital to disappear. Other schemes were created, and it was all about money, it was all about how to get even more rich.
I want to know how did it happen, and I want to know who was behind all that, and what was said, and understand the incomprehensible dilemma of oligarchs now ruling the world, from their perspectives of offshore brands, stealing money from innocent people, stealing properties from other countries, stealing all the goodness what is still left in this world.
They call it Psychosis. That’s how my quest, my incomprehension about what happened to Russia, and as a result, to the rest of the world, is defined in medical, psychiatric terms. It struck me shortly after September 11, right when I landed working as a financial analyst of banks in a beautiful company in Amsterdam. I saw the image of crushing planes when I was at my gym. I even tried to go to my step class like some other members. But I couldn’t stay there. Instead I run outside and I vomited, and then I watched how stock markets made billions on the sake of the human distress, because I worked in finances, and it was in front of my eyes. And I remember thinking: ‘but that’s exactly what happened back in Russia’, and it was hard to process, and I couldn’t understand how people could laugh, and continue living, and not just cry, like I was doing after that day. I, obviously, couldn’t return to the gym after that day either. I hate all the gyms now.
You know what happened next: Saddam Hussein was publicly executed on a stage. Apparently you could even ‘enjoy’ a place on a stage to watch that awful act. Apparently, it was even filmed, like some sort of Big Brother, that is presented to us as something that we should enjoy and be entertained with, as if it is normal. Amelie Nothomb, my favourite Belgian writer wrote about a similar story in ‘Sulphuric Acid’. I read it in French, but you can get it in English. All her books are more than amazing, they are unique. If you haven’t read her yet, I urgently advise you to do so. Start with ‘Stupeur et Tremblements’ – a beautiful, enjoyable read, a comedy, and then move to her other books, in the order that she wrote them, like I do.
One day, when I came back to Brussels, after my spell in the Amsterdam city for good seven years, I woke up in one of my lucid dreaming, crying. I was standing in front of Saint Basil Cathedral in Moscow, one of the most beautiful churches, the real, and I was crying and I was in terrible pain.
And now I know, I was crying for Russia, and I was crying for my beautiful land, and I was crying for what happened to Jesus, and I was crying to what had happened on our planet earth.
But they call it psychosis, because some people tell you that you should just be happy and enjoy your life.
And of course, one should be happy and enjoy one’s life. But I don’t know how to be happy when such terrible things happen on this earth.
How is it even possible, can someone explain??? How can one dare to feel happy when so many other beautiful people are in so much pain?
But let’s return to the 1990s in Moscow, a period in time that reminds me of the situation we are all in now: the unprecedented external circumstances that will affect us all, but we just don’t know how exactly. Today we have a virus that is hanging above our heads as a threat to our every existence, while back in Moscow from 1989 onward, we had a change in ideology, when instead of socialism, we were presented with capitalism.
Unlike the situation now that has a precise threat, such as a virus, the developments back in Russia were happening in a cunning way, leaving most people deceived and totally unprepared. First, it started with the opening of the MacDonald’s in the center of Moscow as its main restaurant, with queues stretching for more than a kilometer to get inside. It was more than a restaurant, it became a symbol of a better life, attracting the inhabitants of Moscow with the lure of life under capitalism. The small corner shops started to sell coca-cola and twix chocolate, and because of the novelty, it seemed indeed like a promise of a life never experienced before, such as the availability of burger and chips. It was, of course, a moment of absolute novelty, hidden behind the dangers of fast unhealthy food, but Moscovites, without knowing better, thought for a short while, that it would lead to something better, because it was just simply exciting. Burgers and chips do provide the moment of instant gratification, but after a while they loose their appeal and are extremely unhealthy.
It was at the moment of MacDonald’s madness, right when people believed that life could ever be something better, something better than the security of a job for life, good medical services, children all going to school and never being hungry that the future rulers of Russian capitalism, the oligarchs and the greedy ones, set up their oil and gas voucher scheme where they robbed an entire nation. People wanted quick money, and sold their vouchers back to the capitalists for a penny, thinking of a relief of some useless groceries and a trip to MacDonald’s. It was only later, watching the oligarchs from their offshore villas that they realized that they were robbed, and so was the entire Russian nation.
The current situation around the Corona virus reminds me of the 1990s years in Russia for a number of reasons. I can feel the same despair from people around that I felt in my native country then. And it isn’t just the fear of the virus, and the illness affecting so many people, it is more about the anxiety of all of us, those who don’t possess millions about what tomorrow might bring. It is the rising unemployment, people applying for universal credit, lack of adequate medical services in otherwise ‘prosperous’ countries, the insecurity of zero-hour contracts, and the possibility of so many small businesses not surviving this crisis. I can feel the anxiety of our world that simply woke up to the reality in which we have been living already for a long while. The society woke up to the face of the capitalism, and the virus showed us the precocity of life. Such as that it isn’t shopping, holidays, or a new car that matter, but having a good and secure job, seeing children going to school and playing with each on the streets, sharing a simple meal among friends, and enjoying the parks and the nature.
The virus of today is a wake-up call for our world, but will we respond to the alarm once it’s all over?
It was at the end of the fifteen century that Hieronymus Bosch painted his amazing painting, called the ‘Ship of Fools’. I wrote about it here, but want to come back to this piece of art once again.
(Ship of Fools by Hieronymus Bosch)
The painting as such was based on what was happening to the people proclaimed as ‘mad’ at that time. ‘Madness’ as such incorporated the same elements as today, such as calling all people exhibiting weird behavior or showing weird thought pattern, as ‘not normal’. These people were put on the ship and sent in the middle of nowhere, but still attracting large crowds of people in order to see them off or when they would embark in another town on their journey. The human curious mind always liked the spectacle because it simply shows us the possibilities of a quest of the human soul: some people simply go beyond the gates of ‘normality’.
Later the ships were replaced by asylums where those, deemed, as ‘insane’ have been kept away from the general public, and not because they pose any danger (it is a grotesque lie) but because our society, using psychiatry as its biggest weapon, doesn’t want to be confronted bluntly with possible ways and thoughts which can deny us of our mediocre thinking, such as dwelling about the next ski holiday, which car to buy, and how to stock on toilet paper because of a very bad flue. All those who start thinking that there is more to life, and question things, usually acquire one form of ‘madness’ or another. But the psychiatry doesn’t want these people, because more people think – more there is a possibility of a revolution for our society which has lost totally its values, with so much poverty, hunger and unhealthy competition where it is no longer a life for the common good (including for the sake of our humanity) but an individual fight in the big manipulation machine where it becomes a battle about who earns more money and drives a better car.
It was several centuries ago that Bosh painted his oeuvre but it is more than still relevant today. On this painting we can see several nuns and a priest instead of the crowd of fools, as the title hints to us when we first see the depiction. There is one single fool, at the end of the painting, in the background, just to reassure us that it is indeed the ship of fools that Bosh is talking about. But by putting the self-proclaimed ‘sane’ members of the society at the front Bosh asks and answers a prominent question at once: but who is really mad here, an innocent ‘fool’ or those, who, behind tales of morality, hide their own sins?
The painting is speaking to me today because it is precisely how I see the society. I don’t witness any high moral values and any strive for the goodness of all. I see rather greed, fake love behind Tinder apps and the like, chase for better gadgets, and thoughts in the head of people that make me wonder as who is insane. I can see the thoughts in the minds of people around, it is written on their faces: how to manipulate someone, how to outsmart someone, how to be more competitive in the already overdriven by competition earth. Rare are those who still look for true friendship, true love, and don’t always think about money. Money is a tool which can make one’s life more comfortable but its place in today’s society got at a higher platform than the one for God.
Those who ask and wonder usually get a mental health diagnosis or get depressed. The depression of today is a normal reaction of our minds to reach for something higher in a place where there is no longer anything higher, hidden behind the fake normality which hides in its turn just greediness and strife in our over-competitive world. It is a normal reaction of our higher selves that revolt in the fakeness of love, fakeness of friendships and betrayal of God, where one can believe in something, but God forbid, when one actually sees the manifestations of God him/herself. All exhibitions of aspiring for something higher than what is dictated by those in power, telling us what and how to do from their vintage points of offshore accounts, are suppressed immediately by the scare of the psychiatric tale. The psychiatry is a weapon to make us all the same, which puts all those who aspire to be different, behind closed doors of the asylums of modern times. Nothing nice is happening there, and no one gets healed, because there is nothing to heal. All the ‘success’ stories you hear are provided by those who feel relief that they are back in our fake normality and can function like everyone else in our robotic society. The psychiatric drugs simply mask the problems of our sick competitive material sphere, and eventually all those on psychiatric drugs, realize that they are not healed and never were, because there is nothing to treat or heal in the first place. Depression is a sane reaction when one wakes up in our sick society, and so are all other ‘psychiatric’ symptoms.
But we are not allowed to voice all this aloud, and only pieces of art such as ‘The Ship of Fools’ remind us of the sad truth that few dare to voice out. It is not those who see the truth that are sick, but those who punish others when they see and hear what is real, hidden behind the narrative of normality, presented to us as ‘caring’ for our mental health.
Let’s turn away from the painting of Hieronymus Bosch and face its portrayal in reality, all around us.
You know, occasionally, I have this feeling that I am witnessing the stuff which most people don’t even find normal. Such a profound immersion into my own head, in order to ask questions and reanalyse them deeper aand deeper. I often ask myself about things in a deep and profound way, for instance: why did September 11 happen, why was Sadam Hossein executed on a scene in front of some willing spectators, reminiscent of Big Brother, why is there such a crisis in most African countries, why there is war between peope, and so on. In my head I find always the same equation: why, where, what, by whom and chronologically WHY.
The answers I find in my own head often susprise me, in a unexpected way. I often see things, and I hear. I hear the transmission of signals among humans, and I see at once whether a person is good or not at all. Behind some beautiful eyes, I often see envy and a jeulous stare.
Those who can see and hear, even if what they see is actually real, can’t say anything aloud as then they are at danger of endding up under the supervision of a psychiatrist. And most of them, are busy to shuting down all the signals you get, because they don’t want that you to know the truth.
The truth, you see, is a scary thing.
My paranoia tells me that the second world war never ever ended, that it adopted a new approach, such as sending bad reiki masters to brainwasch our brains. In Russia, it was hypnotiser Kaschpirovsky who fed lies to the whole Russian nation, encouraging them to buy ‘coupons’ that would simply give the money back to the oligrachs. But in the West, you have trashy really TV shows (except for X-Factor, obviously), intrusing advertisising, fake news to ecnourage you to do bad stuff: such as voting for Brexit in the UK.
Paranoia is a powerful thing, because it doesn’s appear out of the blue. The event of paranoia needs a reason: such as a bad story in one of the magazine, some celebrity’s dirty secrets (the result of it for me, personally, is that I am terrified of being famous)
In orther words, Paranoia is directly linked to fear, it has a concise abstract entity, where you become afraid.
The important thing is that everyone becomes afaid for a good reason: maybe your parent has hit you in the childhood and now you are terrified of all humans, maybe, like me, you saw Sptember Eleven from the TV and since then can’t help but ask the exact questions that the entire population needs to know as answers: HOW? WHY? For which reason, etc.
Or maybe you are terrified of your boss, and of loosing your position, especially if you work on zero-hour contracts (like I did). You have the feeling that you have no stability, no security, and under such circomstances, you do become paranoic, and start looking at additional explanations that can become even more confusing. Especially when I ended up in a #psychiatric hospital back in Sheffield. It reminded of my concentration camp experiment when I was Anne Frank (and still am(. I can’t help but remember my past life with absolute certainty. Yes, I was Anne Frank in my previous life.
God ( I think it might be a female) didn’t create a world where people should be terried, this was done by humans themselevs, bad jealous, greedy people, who have never enough of money, and that’s why they create wars, monstrous dilemma like Brexit, and other suscpicions that something somewhere might happen (the narrative of terrorism) so that they start making even more money via hedge funds.
Today I want you to start thinking of your paranoia and give it a good and profound answer. Ask the exact question, tell to yourself (or GOD) what is bothering you and then try to remember:
Bad people and bad things are around, and it is them who tsranfer to us their negative thoughts. I learned how to listen to them, and it isn’t a pretty sight – the main thought I hear is ‘money’, ‘I want to have more.” It is very bad, as the meaning of a happy life is linked to being fulfilled even with little. Money only does help to find happiness in a strictly material way.
yes, all your what they describe as ‘delusions’ or ‘hearing voices’ are all real. They do exist. And it is a #crime by #American psychiatry to shut your unique seer ability down.
If you ask me, I think I have a pretty good idea about who they are (I looked into the WW2 when I was Anne Frank) and saw in there monsters and saw predators but they were not precisely Germans.
it goes deeper than that.
la paranoia is an entity created by oligarchs and thus who control media back in the UK, real bad witches if you ask me, but NEVER Ever tell all the above stuff to a psychiatrist as they are always catching an easy prey.
Psychiatrist don’t want you to tell the truth so that you don’t tell it to the whole word.
But our world has the right to know:
Second World war was created by Bad witches themselves and while Russia took the main part in eliminating them, they failed to notice the monstrosity of evil mind that constitutes to rule our world in a very bad way.
lets pray for a moment that we will be saved and become even happy.
Due to the absence of most grocery products in the 1990s in Russia, people had to develop quite remarkable culinary skills. One had to be truly inventive in order to come up with any interesting dishes, besides a piece of bread with butter (and even butter was at some point totally unavailable in the shops). I remember the period when we would eat either cabbage pies for weeks in a row, or spaghetti with minced meat for months in one go. One would get used, however, to such a simple life quite quickly: if there was nothing available, one had no choice but to adapt.
Being a teenager during that difficult period in the history of Russia, I wasn’t paying much attention to it, unless I was confronted with it directly, like when I had to buy floor and sugar with vouchers or think strategically about how to store bread in a freezer. Most of the time, I was preoccupied with other things, such as where to get a new book in the French language, how to get more tickets to my favourite theatre, and where our next escapade with my best friend would take in the city. Were there so many new things to discover in our native town adjusting itself to a new, very weird ideology, where all those who had been proclaiming ‘to each, according to their needs’, would suddenly become busy with setting up their new businesses, mostly small corner shops, which would start selling vodka but also an array of American goods, such as Cocal-Cola, Snickers, Mars, and Marlboro Light. It was strange to observe the sudden interest of my nation in all things American right when shops still stood empty of the goods most needed on a daily basis, like bread or milk.
But during one winter in Moscow, I had to learn how to be creative and inventive like the rest of the local population. One could fill oneself with Mars and Coca-Cola only to a certain extent. It lost its appeal and even flavour after a couple of months or so. After all it wasn’t what we had grown up with, and the taste was even disappointing after a while. Russian people are more used to a simpler taste, and their own selection of favourite dishes, that one starts to crave after some time passes. And then it comes to traditional festive period, Russian people have to have what they have been used to since years. On the eve of the New Year, which is the main festive day in Russia, one always expects to celebrate it with the traditional Russian dishes, such as venegret (a Russian salad), Olivier salad, roast, potatoes, Vodka and medovik (Russian honey cake).
In 1992 I was invited to attend the New Year celebration at a friend of my boyfriend then, who studied at the university of cinematography in Moscow. I never declined invitations coming from people studying at that prestigious place as these were the funniest and most outgoing bunch of people I’d ever met in my entire life. They were all studying acting and it reflected in how they were in real life. Something interesting was always happening in their lives, and the group where my boyfriend studied had the most remarkable characters. The oldest daughter of Nikita Mikhalkov was among the group, and while the current celebrity culture was totally absent then, I was still in awe. I was at the final years of secondary school then, and for me it was an outlet to a grown-up, much more interesting and exciting world.
I was always invited to all their events for also ulterior motives on the part of the group. I was extremely talented in making the cake Medovik, based on a secret, passed through generations of my step-mum recipe. Every time there was a party they would call me, and after asking me whether I was interested to join, add as an after-thought: “Ekaterina, do you think you can bring your cake, please, as well?” Despite the fact that the cake would take hours to make and had to be made the day before to acquire the melting taste, I never minded to deliver. It was fun to be among them, drinking like a grown-up, dancing till dawn, witnessing the improvised acting on a script written during the gathering.
In 1992 shops, while getting better (one could at least make a cake based on what was on offer), still stood empty of the products that were needed the most for a New Year’s party, such as sausages (necessary for salad Olivier), or even peas. But Andrei, the friend of my boyfriend, had procured the sausages for the part, and this was a task assigned to me for the party preparation. I had to cut them all for our planned salads. It would be actually our main dish (the salad), since we hadn’t managed to get any meat for the roast. That and my three Medovik cakes, that Andrei had hidden as soon as I arrived so that others wouldn’t eat it before the party would start. They really liked my cake. The secret ingredients were the chocolate topping and roasted nuts in the crème, plus, in reality, the recipe was absolutely different from all known medoviks on the market, but this fact I kept for myself. It was named ‘medovik’ and thus, stayed called so.
Andrei had a big dog who was affected by the absence of products like all of us. He was constantly starving and had to eat the cat food for a year or so, when shops suddenly got a big supply of Whiskas and of nothing else. It was a very friendly, outgoing creature, just constantly starving.
How could we have forgotten that fact, I still wonder today? How come we totally missed the dog in the picture of our party? Maybe because the dog was sleeping in the corner during our preparations, lurking, as if invisible, sniffing the delicious sausages, being cut for the main dish for twenty people or so.
It took me two hours to cut the sausages, and I deposited the huge bucket with them on the table when I was done and went for a cigarette break. Some other people stayed behind in the room. Maybe if it was just me, I would remember the dog in the corner. But we all forgot. Others had left the room shortly after me, and it was only ten minutes or so later that I heard a shriek from Andrei coming from the room:
“Where, the fuck, are the sausages???”
We all rushed to the room and stared into the bucket. It was empty. As in a slow movie we moved our heads to acknowledge the dog, not anymore sleeping, but leaking his paws with a satisfied grin. He was the culprit, but who could blame him really? It was New Year’s eve after all, and the dog had his best meal in years.
As to us, we had to improvise on the spot and prepare the salad without any meat. But we had enough of medovik cakes, and some vodka, and the story of the dog became the best joke we had for years.
It was, of course, one of the best parties in my life. Because it was around experience of fun and laughter and unexpectedness of life, sometimes, harsh, sometimes, better, and not around consumption, buying of useless stuff a year ahead, and expensive overpriced presents that no one really needs for a happy and cheerful life.
I was a teenager when the Soviet Union collapsed and suddenly I found myself in a new country and in a new regime.
As things go in life, when you have to live through the unbelievable, you adjust pretty quickly, especially when you are young.
Still, the changes that my country was undergoing right before the collapse, and after, were remarkable.
It started with the emergence of ‘lareks’, the small ugly compact boxes decorating almost every street in Moscow, selling stuff. These were the first visible signs of capitalism, offering everything from coca-cola, mars chocolate, and spirits to tampons and cigarettes.
(example of Larek)
No one was even thinking of checking for age, and together with my best-friend, Masha, we took advantage of this new development at once. We would stroll to one of such shops after school, buy coca-cola and cigarettes, and then stroll to the McDonald restaurant in the centre of the city for more ‘delights’. It was the first real fast-food event in our city, and therefore, very noticeable. The queue to the place would stretch for a kilometer, with people eager for the Big Mac and apple pies. Masha and I were still at school, we had plenty of time, and so, spending an hour at least in a queue, was really a minor matter, considering the joy of discovering McDonald when you are fourteen/thirteen, the age which is so easily corrupted by the allure of fast, unhealthy food. We would go for the big mac meal, together with milkshakes, and apple pies, barely able to walk after each feast at the ‘restaurant’. Smoking our cigarettes bought at the ‘larek’ as a complimentary measure following the escapade to McDonald, we would make plans for our new discoveries, ‘things to follow, to try’.
The world suddenly turned upside down, and for Masha and me, it represented new undiscovered adventures. Everything seemed possible, everything was allowed. There was no one to explain that cigarettes were bad, or that fast-food was unhealthy. We could do anything we wanted, and when you are at that daring age of fourteen, you, obviously, dare to pursue the temptations.
I remember the day when we first entered the casino in the centre of Moscow, situated at the prestigious hotel in the centre. Our aim was really unclear, we didn’t plan any playing or betting, but we wanted to have a look. Having established that anything, absolutely anything was possible in our new brand world, called the ‘capitalism’, we started to push the boundaries to a tricky and often, dangerous extent.
We wanted to be clever, we wanted to be smart. We were too young for the grown up world in its whole glory, but the truth was clear to our eyes: in the new regime, under the new ideology, the crown belonged to those who overcame the rules, bent them, and went for what they wanted. At that time we wanted to be among the grown-ups, and thus, we went to where the adults had fun. The adults who seemed to rule the new world, based on money and status. That first entrance to the casino was our first appearance among the cool ones, and since it had worked (we got the entry), we tried all other, prestigious and luxurious places.
Masha and I would dress in what we judged to be smart clothes, while in reality, it was what most of Moscow was wearing at that time. Clothes were still rare, at least, interesting, clothes, but I was luckier than others because my mum worked in Italy then and would bring me good stuff, while Masha had extremely resourceful mum. Masha, would simply borrow her sophisticated, beautiful dresses.
We would turn up at the entrance to the casino or the most prestigious club for foreigners, and play a game of getting in. Bouncers were strict, because these places were reserved strictly for the nouveu-riches or wealthy foreigners, and thus, we would start speaking French with Masha hundreds metres before approaching the bouncers. We attended a French school in Moscow, you see.
“Hello,” I would say to the bouncer, smiling in a conspiratory matter, as if I was about to unveil a bombshell. “This is the famous singer, Margerite Condounois, coming directly from Paris. I am her translator,” I would point towards Masha, leaning towards us as if she couldn’t understand a word, and then switch to a whispering mode to continue with my tale, “Miss Condonois is incognito here, to look at how the locals live, to relax little bit, so, please, make sure, it stays private,” I would then slip a note of some roubles into the hand of a bouncer, and proceed to the entrance. The money was very little (less than a pittance for a tip), because we didn’t have any, but it worked each and every time. Wherever we went, we were let in.
Now in retrospect, I think it worked because of the obvious lie. We looked too young to be international stars or translators, and on top of it, Masha looked way too Russian (distinctive Russian cheeks and blue eyes) , while it was me who could pass for a French, with some difficulties. And because of such a visible ‘oversight’ in our story, we were allowed to proceed, since the bouncers and security always believed in what we were saying. The opposite could pass for a truth, in case we were lying, that was their assumption.
As a result, Masha and I, attended the best casinos, restaurants, clubs, theatre performances, managed to get into the ‘White House’ twice, and into a private party of an oligarch in the making. Masha even went on stage to perform some songs in French (she could indeed sing), and we ended up being paid on several occasions.
We exited the narrative of the life of the glory and the rich, when we both realized that we were after different things. We wanted to study, to be independent, to discover the world, to read books, and to remain young, care-free girls for longer, instead of turning into ‘gold-diggers’.
As a result, despite the absolute madness of that times, I am also grateful that I discovered the inside of it, the inside of what it means when one lives one’s life based on money, power, and more money. Each time Masha and I succeeded to enter the world of the powerful and wealthy, it led to a terrible disappointment. There was nothing of real interest there, no real discussions, no interesting talks, no spontaneity. No philosophy, no deepness, no soul, and no real laughter. We looked, we observed, and we made our minds. We wanted to remain in that old world, in that space in between the ideologies, where feelings, people, and soul discovery mattered more than one’s bank account.
Ironically, we remained true to our convictions, where life is interesting on a daily basis, when you look for something deeper than money and status.
(The view of Moscow with my best-friend Masha, five years ago)
Having looked at Moscow in 1989 in my previous post, we are going to stay there for the time being, but move a couple of years forward.
We are staying there, because I want to start demonstrating that madness is not just a state that affects individuals at some point or another, but can also be a manifestation of the society as such. And while it is also very much present in the Western hemisphere (where we will move together in 1995, when I went to Brussels to do a Bachelor degree in French), Russia and my native town, Moscow, were a typical, very outspoken examples of that particular case, when madness strikes the society, deeply and profoundly, without that individuals affected realise it, or if they realise it, they either keep it for themselves (like I did), or they reanalyse it in retrospect. That moment when you look at some past, and say, loud and clear, yes, that was totally insane.
As Nietzsche once said:
“Madness is rare in individuals – but in groups, parties, nations, and ages, it is the rule.”
So, Moscow in 1990 to 1992 and beyond, represented quite an interesting sight.
You can watch the depiction of these times in a brilliant movie, called ‘Taxi-Blues’ by Pavel Lungin (trailer), which starts with showing us the glimpse of Kashpirovsky, hypnotising the entire nation from state TV in 1989, and then proceeds in telling us the story of how ordinary people managed (or not) to survive that period. As we all know, Gorbachev, came up with his ideas of ‘democracy’, ‘glasnost’, and ‘freedom of speech’, that he tried to incorporate into real life by demonstrating an absolute act of insanity, such as banning alcohol at some point. My dad worked at a local communist council by that time and used to receive ‘special’ packages once a month. Before the arrival of Gorbachev, packages contained some interesting variety of cheese, one type of sausage, some biscuits, and a bottle of vodka. Once Gorbatchev introduced his ban on alcohol, the bottle of vodka was replaced by lemonade.
My dad used to joke about the new measures, saying that: “One Russian is a drunk, two Russians are a drunken party, and three Russians are a local communist party.” It was all done in good spirit, because alcohol was still, obviously, available, made by desperate Russians in the safety of their homes. The name was ‘Samogon’, and local psychiatric hospitals were struggling with the new intake of patients, who were either intoxicated by the homemade spirit, or feeling very unwell after the séances of Kashpirovsky on the TV.
Being a teenager at that time, I was taking it all in as a really curious observer. In all honesty, I was totally bewildered by what was becoming with my native town, my country, and my surroundings. Having lots of free time for myself, I would often take a notebook and write in it, while walking around the streets of Moscow. The view was indeed, how to say it, (amazing is probably a wrong word to describe the peculiarity of madness) stupefying. Kashpirovsky’s appearance on the TV seemed to have led to a particular phenomenon outside of the state TV, such as resurgence of all things ‘psychic’ literally on every corner. Wherever you looked, you could either see a palm reader, or a nice old kind lady, offering a Tarot spread, right next to a Russian Orthodox Church. Churches were reopening their doors next to newly established businesses, specialising in all kinds of magic. You could order a love spell, or ask to get rid of your enemy, and the problem was, that it all worked in reality. People disappeared every day, the unwanted elements were get rid by the widespread mafia, and at some point my entire family had to hide in a remote apartment, because my dad had refused to accept payment for his business in yet another huge stock of ‘Triumph’ lingerie, instead of much needed cash.
My own problem was a particular one. I had a ‘psychic’ intuition myself. I could see the fakes, the greedy ones, and the evil. I could also feel that something totally wrong was taking place in my country, at the level way above my head, such as rubbing an entire nation of its resources and money in a matter of one year (maybe two, but I remember it more as a participant, rather than as a historian with concrete facts). The state companies offered ‘vouchers’ to the laypeople, and it was done right when the whole Russia was having a starvation problem. Shops were empty, and the lucky ones would get an ‘American aid’ at schools. As other children, I was entitled to one and would often carry the cartoon box (containing the aid) to my grandma, who, as other old people, had nothing at all. We would open the box, hoping for something better than last time, but it was always the same: uneatable dry ‘sausage’ (it was called a sausage, but it didn’t taste anything like that), and bottles of dry milk.
Since there was nothing else in the fridge, we would eat that.
The same companies which had given vouchers to the laypeople, started to buy them off the deprived, desperate people for a penny back. It was all done right when shops suddenly started to get some spare products in. My grandma was among those who sold her voucher, as she just wanted little bit of cash, to buy some bread, to buy some nicer food, to buy some boots in order to be able to walk in harsh winter.
We all know now, that it was a moment when oligarchs were made, but not that many people know, of course, that it all happened when Moscow city and the whole Russia was under the curse of evil magic, orchestrated under Yeltsin and his entourage.
So, yes, madness as such, to conclude my argument for this post, is nothing more than an outburst of grotesque and incomprehensible at any given time. It is not madness as such which is a problem, and definitely, not an innocent weird eccentric who points you to its manifestations. The problem is when it is all taken into the hands by evil, greedy people, who want nothing more but power, money, and even more money.
Before we launch fully into the phenomenon of what the psychiatrists define as ‘psychosis’, we need to set up a scene.
‘Psychosis’ as such as defined as ‘a loss of touch with reality’, but my aim (a humble one) is to demonstrate, eventually, that those who go into this state (naturally) often reach another reality, which is true, real, and magical.
To set the scene, we need to go back in time, and more specifically to Moscow in 1989. It was the time of ‘mass psychosis’, and my own ‘madness’ or rather questioning on my part but ‘what is really going on here?’ started exactly then.
In 1989 Kashpirovsky made his first appearance on a national Russian state TV. As I remember he would appear once a week, for a televised mass hypnosis. Yes, you read it correctly. The national TV (one of the two channels which existed at that time) would air a hypnotist for an hour or so, to hypnotize an entire nation. I am not making it up. Google ‘Kashpirovsky’ or check this article about him in The Guardian.
Kashpirovsky was a trained psychotherapist, a lecturer, and a self-proclaimed ‘psychic healer’. Provided you had a bottle of water in front of the TV (that was his requirement in his address to the nation), you would be healed of all your troubles, both physical and spiritual.
My engagement with Kashpirovsky happened at a very personal level, as I could see, with my proper eyes, that something was terribly wrong. Absolutely out of order.
I was reaching my years as a teenager at that time, and alternated between my dad’s family and my grandma, who lived on the same street, in the same house, but in a different apartment. I would often stay with her. She was an old, fragile lady, who had lost her beloved husband, and was struggling to adjust to the radical changes that my country was undergoing then. The regime and ideology were changing, and the majority of the population was at a loss about what was really going on.
Being still very young, I also didn’t know what was really happening, but one thing was clear: it was all wrong, and especially the appearance of mass hypnosis on the state TV. The word ‘psychic’ made me feel uneasy, and somehow suspicious. The whole nation was lost then on a spiritual level, and it seemed that all sorts of charlatans and fakes tried to feel the niche. This was taking place in parallel with the resurgence of the Russian Orthodox Church, and therefore, it was all terribly confusing. But wasn’t the ‘hypnosis’ on such a mass scale in total contradiction to the Christian teachings, I was asking myself?
My uneasiness was also based in seeing what Kashpirovsky was doing to my late grandma. As most people she would wait for Kashpirovsky on TV the whole day (streets would empty during his ‘séance’), put a bottle in front, and stay glued during the whole hypnosis.
I couldn’t watch it and tried to argue in vain with her that maybe it was all too far-fetched, and even dangerous. I was an avid reader by then, I was extremely curious, and from the scarce knowledge I had by that time, I had a nasty gut feeling that by ‘saying’ things on the state TV, and by channelling some kind of ‘energy’, one could indeed hypnotize an entire nation to death. I also didn’t like the look of Kashpirovsky, and he didn’t strike me as someone one could trust.
Kashpirovsky didn’t heal the nation, and subsequent reports demonstrated the harm he had inflicted on numerous people. I could see what happened to my grandma after following his sessions. She developed diabetes, and on a spiritual level got lost even more. The promises of Kashpirovsky were all lies, as nothing was ‘calm’ anymore or would ‘get better’.
It all got worse, for the nation, for Russian people, and also for my own family for a long while.
But why do I give you the example of Kashpirfovsky, you might ask, to set the scene?
Well, mainly for two reasons.
First of all, it is to demonstrate that once someone puts a ‘psychotherapist’ or ‘psychiatrist’ in front of you, on a national level, it is often in order to exercise the power, and authority which can be misplaced, wrong and even not ethical. The UK government (and many other governments) are doing it now on a scale similar to mass hypnosis, by waiving their term of ‘mental illness’ and putting it on the same level as ‘any other physical illness’. As discussed by many survivors (check the open letter to the UK government by National Survivor User Network), it is nothing but an attempt to get rid of dealing with people experiencing distress on an individual level, and is in cooperation with Big Pharma. It all comes from the psychiatry, which is no longer a domain reserved to medicine, but a fifth estate, with the enormous power to regulate the entire population.
Secondly, it is to show that the general population often doesn’t see the obvious, even if the obvious is in front of you. Kashpirovsky and his hypnosis was a very obvious, and quite dangerous scam, happening so openly in front of the eyes of the entire population, that very few questioned its legitimacy. Indeed, why should we, if it is promoted by the government itself?
The point I am trying to make, is that ‘psychosis’ is not a matter of an individual only. The ‘loss of touch’ with reality is happening to all of us in the Western society, and those who see it are often proclaimed as ‘mad’, because they threaten the status quo of our society based in greediness, profit accumulation, and loss of moral values, where everything goes into making money, more money, and even more. In the UK we have the ‘psychosis’ of Brexit, in Russia we had Kashpirovsky and oligarchs, in the US they had September Eleven, which was a turning point for the direction in which we are all going now. Right after it happened, the stock markets all fell, and hedge funds made billions in money. I was working as a financial analyst of banks in Amsterdam then, and watched in stupor that such a massive human disaster was nothing but a matter of buying stocks on the stock market.
It also led to increase in distress among the general population, because of incomprehension as to how to process something totally incomprehensible, but as in Moscow in 1989, it led to the rise of psychiatric admissions and of treating human malaise with the psychiatric drugs, making profit for Pharma.
And the cycle goes on.
Being ‘mad’ is a cry of sanity in the world gone mad.
Dealing with bad voices in your head is an emergency you have to address in a drastic way. They are real and they are bad. I don’t hear bad voices in my head, bad voices for me come from the society: they come from bad news on the TV, from adults shouting at children, from cries for help on the streets, from bad humans who try to condition, to dictate, to empower you, and to stigmatize. I do hear a voice, and it is my own voice, it is a voice I learned by talking with God. I laugh with him, he helps me through ‘laughing’, while navigating the society of misery, envy and despair. It is a voice which tells me to look at the menu for food, and then study it carefully when you are at a hospital, detained against your will under Mental Health Act, while you come there on your own to ask for help. It is a voice which tells me to laugh at the psychiatrist who tell me ‘you are ill’. It is a voice which helped me to emerge from the damage of psychiatry by inventing an imaginary friend, a voice of my best friend in life. You do need such a friend when you deal with the psychiatry
If you hear bad voices in your head, and they tell you something bad, such as ‘kill yourself’, ‘you are bad’, ‘you are not worthy’, etc, you need to outpower them. You can outpower them via music. Put headphones on your head, and go into the music, listen to it. You need to have very good music, just something won’t do. Taylor Swift, and especially her album ‘Reputation’ will help you, as well as some Rachmaninoff. Their energy comes directly from God, or if you don’t believe in God, they come from a space of healing, from people who overcame struggle, stigma, and something bad in their lives. BritneySpears (Blackout) is also very effective. The voice of Ellie Goulding is soothing.
You need to have lots of warm water when you deal with bad voices. Baths, warm shower over your head. Once they stop (the voices), you need to go out, into the garden, into the nature, and tune into birds. They are voices that will relieve you from the negativity you are dealing with.
Hearing bad voices doesn’t mean that something is wrong with you. The voices you hear are real, and it does come from the same evilness that the psychiatry emerged from. You are sensitive to it. And they do target you, because they want to get you under their trap.
It all started under the second world war, during Holocaust, when they were doing experiments on humans who came into their concentration camps. It began in Germany, but German people weren’t at fault, Germany became an experiment for the evil mind. They did experiment on people, and they did learn lots of things. They learned that souls are real, they learned that human mind can never be understood, and that kindness and compassion comes directly from the heart, it comes from God. They also learned that they can condition people via messages, and they do transfer messages. It is a witchcraft that you can never understand unless you are evil, and you are dealing with evil. You do need very powerful ‘magic’ to survive what you are dealing with (if you are under the psychiatry curse). And you do need to believe in humanity while you are trying to survive. The psychiatrists who come into the system now, often don’t understand themselves what they are entering and what they are doing, some of them genuinely want to help (they don’t know how), and you do need their cooperation to outsmart the evil, and win over it, once and for good. There are still people who are good, they are just deeply conditioned, and they are conditioned by evil. Madness is not what they tell you. It isn’t you. Madness is wars, killing of people, terrorism, wars between religions, bullying, bad things happening to good people, starving children, September Eleven, hunger, homelessness, people locked up in psychiatric hospitals for life without any hope left, extermination of Native Americans, racism, discrimination of sexualities, and psychiatry as an industry targeting children and vulnerable people.
But I will come back to it in due term, for now, I will tell you a story.
I learned about the ‘experiment’ with voices from P. C. (a real person in real life) who was a famous psychologist from the UK.
I met P. in Amsterdam.
She was in deep sadness when I met her. She presented herself as Pandora to me, and it was through probing her that I learned who she was. She was undergoing electroshock ‘treatment’ and she ended up in a psychiatric hospital after an attempt at suicide. She was very outspoken about the fact that she would still end her life and was in the hospital against her will. She had lost a son in her life. He had died in a car accident.
You can’t overcome grief after you lose your child, you can live only if you start believing that your child is in heaven and that you will meet again. There is no other way, it is otherwise, irreconcilable as an idea.
I don’t know what happened exactly to P., and I wasn’t at her funeral. In my mind I try to believe that she is alive somewhere, that she is still here. She was kind, she was extremely eccentric, she was smart, she was intelligent, she was wearing a perfume and heels in the hospital when I would visit her.
I read a text on her laptop when she was smoking a cigarette. She didn’t know I was reading it.
Her text (and it is a summary) said the following:
“During ten years of my life I worked in a facility in England. In that facility they were experimenting with human emotions and how to target them. They were actively developing a system of how to separate children from their real parents, and how to incorporate their growing thoughts. For instance, when you say to your child ‘you aren’t worthy’, the child will grow up believing in it. Or if you learn how to transfer a message ‘you aren’t loved’, it will grow a seed of non-love in one’s mind. The idea was to target first parents, separate them from their children, and exterminate love and hope all together.”
I stopped reading the text somewhere in the middle and threw away her laptop. P. was very angry with me for days after, because I had ruined her computer. I had to throw up after reading the text, and for years after I tried to reassure myself that it was just a fiction and that it wasn’t real. After all, it happened in a psychiatric hospital.
You have to believe your own eyes in what you see when you deal with evil. Yes, bad things are real and they do happen. P. was a victim like many others, trapped in a psychiatric journey.
But coming back to voices, they are real. Bad voices come from conditioning, from hysterical parents who tell you that you are bad, from trauma in your childhood, from a bad teacher who shouts at you, from a ‘doctor’ who yells at you that you are sick when you are not, from poverty, and from bad people.
I don’t know whether that facility that P. described is real. I was never there and I don’t want to have a look.
But having lived my own story till now, yes, I do think that it’s real.
You do need to shut bad voices down. You need to exercise again and again with music, with birds, and from asking someone to tell you the opposite of what you hear in your head. Ask them to tell you: ‘You are loved,’ ‘you are worthy‘, ‘you are beautiful’.