A Week on a Ward

Copyright © 2018 Vincent Blade Douglas.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-9822-1469-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-1468-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-1484-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018912609

Balboa Press rev. date: 10/24/2018

CONTENTS

Preface

Disclaimer

Then

And Now

Introduction

Tripping

Yoga

Mind Control

Linda

Getting IN

Saturday

Sunday

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

Thursday

Friday

Getting OUT

After Images

About The Author

PREFACE

I am a diminished person. This is the story of my diminution.

Some 50 years ago, I was introduced to the worlds of psychedelics and psychic phenomenon. It did not end well. Although I only spent a week in a closed psychiatric ward, that one week would drastically affect the rest of my life. It took me at least six months to get the full use of my hands back. I’m not so sure I have ever gotten the full use of my mind back.

This is my story. This is my song. I would have thought that after a lifetime of learning and experience that I would understand what happened to me and that I would learn from it and help others. This has not been the case.

The bulk of this book was written many decades ago, I have chosen to share it at this time in my life.

DISCLAIMER

This is a first person account of a week spent on a psychiatric ward. Much of it was written while I was delusional and still hallucinating. It is as true and as real as I can make it. Names have been changed and identifying items omitted. Also, considerable time has passed. Please note, however, that all thoughts and words are mine and note that I was hospitalized on a closed ward. Some of what I observed and have reported probably never happened.

THEN

This book was started while I was still mad (Paranoid schizophrenic? Bipolar? Nervous breakdown? Drug flip out?). Sheer will power, together with the all-pervading conviction that I had something very important to say drove me to its writing. I persevered, despite impaired use of my hands, memory lapses, hallucinations, little energy and ohmigod, the fear.

The first draft of my story was completed in some six months following my release from a psychiatric ward. Much of it was rewritten in the next couple of years. I was then forced to put it aside. Now, so many years later, an inner need has forced me to finish it. The memories are true. The pain was real. Any philosophy, explanations or rationalizations that have crept in are simply words used to describe something that I still don’t understand. I was crazy. This is my story.

AND NOW

The bulk of this ego trip to myself was written immediately after being released. It took some six months to do a first draft. After revisions, it was not touched for years, and resurrected briefly in the year 2001. It was finished only now. About a year after my ward experience, I was lying in the dead man’s yoga position (flat on my back, arms at my side), meditating. Suddenly, it was as though I had been shot in the heart by a long distance rifle. I knew my own mortality and knew with complete knowing that I would die someday. Yes, we all know we will die, but I knew (or grokked it as used in Heinlein’s The Stranger in a Strange Land). I broke out of my reverie and begged God to let me live to the year 2000, fully knowing that I had a limited time on this planet and that all kinds of magical things were going to happen at the turn of the century. And now here I am, still going on. Trying to clean up unfinished business and get on with my life. Sharing this experience has become a driving force in my life.

INTRODUCTION

This is a first person account of a week spent on a psychiatric ward. Its writing was triggered by the visit of one of my professors while I was hospitalized. I had begun to become rational and attempted to tell him about my experiences. He suggested that it would be meaningful for me to write about them, especially due to my background in psychology.

I began attempting to detail my ward experiences shortly after my release from the hospital. My writing, however, became much more than an attempt to detail a one-week experience. It became my reason to be. It gave purpose and meaning to my struggle to survive and regain my sanity. Writing the first draft of my experiences, done during the six months or so following my release was one of the most difficult and courageous things that I have ever done.

First of all, there was the lack of physical dexterity. For example, a week or two after my release, I had written a one-page letter of thanks to the two professors that had visited me on the ward. I had used a portable typewriter, for goodness sake (the common use of computers and the internet were not yet here). It had taken me an entire afternoon of concentrated effort with many pages thrown away (a word processor would have been helpful). Simply, my hands didn’t work. Although it was difficult for me to hold rational thoughts for any length of time, my greatest frustration was the inability of my fingers to hit the right keys on the typewriter. Tears formed in my eyes and dripped down my face as I inserted blank page after blank page into the typewriter. I was finally able to type a short letter that was readable. My physical difficulties slowly abated over a period of several months.

Then there was the fear. As I got into my story, I was telling secrets, chronicling the voyage of an inner space traveler through nightmare country. As such, they came out of the walls, from beyond the veils of my rational mind. Misshapen, vulture-like monsters perched on my shoulder, monitoring my thoughts, ready to control my writing. I ignored them. My story must be told. The hallucinations changed. As I continued to tell my story, typing away, a golden chain formed around my ankle, with one end holding me to the typewriter. I was obviously on to something; the truth must be told and in its telling I would be set free.

There were the impaired memory processes. I had gone quickly from waking up on the ward with no memory at all to a recall of only my long term memory to a jagged memory filled with quite vivid, complete histories as well as blanks and blurs. In attempting to detail my experiences, I would occasionally blank, not only forgetting what I was trying to say, but also what I was doing. Sometimes I would be back in minutes; other times it would take me hours to resume what I had been doing.

Finally, I was not rational in the truest sense of the word. That is, I was unable to hold on to a single train of thought, any consistent system of logic or sense of purpose. Hindu’s have compared the mind to a drunken monkey needing to be disciplined. The mind has also been compared to a vast switching unit, with us attending very quickly to now one subject, then another and then another, with an illusion of continuity. As this drunken monkey switched from one thought to another, I would slide into the side pockets of my mind, forgetting where I had started and where I was going. Most of us are able to concentrate on one thing, ignoring or dismissing irrelevant thoughts. Not me. Not then.

In my weakened, post-ward condition, trying to hold or keep my concentration was very difficult, if not impossible for me to do. I would skip from thought to thought and from subject to subject with each new entry into my consciousness becoming the main idea. My reasons for writing continually expanded. I was beset by a whole series of existential questions: Who am I? Why am I? What am I? Why did this happen to me? What did I do to deserve all of this grief and suffering? In addition to trying to answer these questions, I was determined to expose the apparent absurdities of our hospitals and mental health professionals as well as the pain involved in the healing process. There was also the need to understand the madness and hallucinations that beset me as well as my love affair with Linda, which had taken me beyond the limits of my experiential capability. Was she a goddess, Siva’s mistress Kali coming to bedevil me? A saint? Or was she just a decent, nice young woman who happened to fall in love with a jerk? Okay, I really believe that it’s the latter one.

Anger and determination enabled me to finish that first draft. Rereading it, I was surprised that I had used fuck about every other word. Fuck me. Fuck the ward. Fuck them. Later, rewriting it, I would attempt let go of my anger and to limit it to a more objective account of my experience.

On one level, my story is a simple one. I was a bright, idealistic, religious youth that grew up in the Midwest. I was an egghead, geek, nerd, or whatever the current term is for a shy academic. At the age of 17, I sat across from the Dean of Men at a large, Midwestern State university. He told me that based on my high school record and test scores, I could be anything that I wanted to be. I could succeed at any academic course of study the university had to offer. All I needed was interest and motivation.

I was only moderately successful in college, however, having discovered booze, broads, and agnosticism. By my mid-twenties, I had obtained a bachelor’s degree in psychology; a master’s degree in education, had taught Russian, math and psychology at the high school level, switched to industry and was working as a senior systems analyst. A series of personal crises led me to introspection and a questioning of who I was. Still in my 20s, after all of my gold stars, I found myself to be balding, growing fat, and smoking and drinking too much. Where had all my promise and idealism gone?

My answer was to return to school and become the teacher and psychologist that I had always dreamed of becoming. I was able to obtain a four-year fellowship to a major university in School Psychology with an emphasis in Computer Assisted Instruction. For me, it was a dream come true. I would be able to combine my interest and expertise in the fields of education, psychology and computer systems.

As it turned out, I would only spend a year in graduate school, returning to my previous job in Chicago with a raise and promotion. Some 15 months later, I would attempt to return to graduate school. Although I had given myself a month to re-acclimate myself to school before winter enrollment, I would meet Linda, with my plans exploding in ecstasy. Two months after meeting Linda, I would find myself weak and broken on a psychiatric ward.

Whether my insanity was the accumulation of bad habits, a magnification of personal faults, a situational psychosis due to pressures pushing and pulling me here and there, the result of emotional overkill with Linda, or simply, the result of drugs as I told the doctors, I do not know.

Although it was probably the result of battling myself, I like to think of my madness as a fall from grace, necessitated by my attaining knowledge of techniques and power far beyond my wisdom and understanding. Whatever the case, in order to understand my story, it is necessary to understand Magic. Magic, or rather, altered states of awareness permeated my existence for some 2 ½ years prior to my breakdown.

The three major techniques, interwoven, that I participated in were tripping (psychedelics), yoga and mind control. The psychedelics taught me that the experiential possibilities of any single human being are virtually without limit and for all practical purposes, infinite. Yoga, and at best I was a novice, gave me control, allowing me to pass through mountains, so to speak, and return to my normal state. Mind control opened doorways to the void, allowing me to move through time and space.

Following is an overview of some of my experiences with these techniques, emphasizing the psychic and mystical aspects of my adventure that ended so badly. Although I still meditate, I no longer actively participate in any of these things. I am reminded of Hesse’s Journey to the East, in which the main character begins telling of an exotic spiritual journey that he experienced in his youth that is no longer taking place. He is then led to realize that it is he who has changed and not the voyage. I feel like that. Although my ward experience can be understood in isolation and, indeed, has a number of elements of a classical breakdown, I feel a need to mention these search vehicles as background in order to give set and setting to my ward experience.

Tripping

The world has certainly changed. Drug usage and drug experiences are so very different today as opposed to then. So many books have been written regarding the psychedelic experience that it would be foolish for me to try to supplement them, except, perhaps, to relate some of my personal experiences.

My life has always been cyclical with the highs and lows, bad and good coming in bunches. As I prepared to return to graduate school, I was on the strongest natural high of my life. My mind had opened with me becoming incredibly productive at work as well as free of the gloomy depression and bothersome illnesses that had dogged me for much of my early life. Perhaps my major problem is that I have never been satisfied; when the good happens in my life, I always look for better.

In this totally open frame of mind, riding the tide of good, even outstanding events, a friend visited me from the west coast. He was doing his guru trip. He had been totally caught up in the west coast shtick, had turned on, and returned to the Midwest to tell all of his old friends about his new world. He spent a week or two with me in Chicago, talking continually about his new life style. We decided to travel together. We drove down to Florida with me lining up courses and an apartment for the coming semester. We then drove up the east coast to Cape Cod. He would remain there while I flew back to Chicago and then move to Florida.

Ah, what an experience. To that point, I had smoked some marijuana. Although enjoyable, I had done it for purely recreational reasons. He turned me on to Acapulco gold, which at that time was already legendary marijuana in head circles. More importantly, he talked to me about a way of life that promised insights into the wonder of it all. As he said, I’ve taken mescaline three times and after the last trip I never came down. To him, psychoactive drugs were a gateway into a newly found spirituality and wholeness. He spoke of a way of life and philosophical insights that were reminiscent of Alan Watts and Timothy Leary. As we talked, he would constantly ask me questions, then wait for answers and listen intently to my responses. Always a latent seeker and a heavy reader, bits and pieces of Lao-tze’s Tao-Te-Ching, Greek mythology, Zen Buddhist writings and more, spiraled upward from forgotten memory vats into my consciousness. It was as though I gave historical precedent, cognitive background and verbalization to the life style that he had discovered.

As we drove, talked and smoked grass, he turned me on to his version of head philosophy, which was, in effect, a know thyself colored by the drug experience. Now, it seems almost blasphemous. Then, it was so very new and different. As one guru out of the East, referring to LSD, had commented, it was so typical of us materialistic westerners to find spirituality through a physical substance like acid.

After constant driving, rapping and smoking, we became so in tune with each other that it became eerie. While we’ve all experienced the I was just going to say that phenomenon while talking to a friend, our rapport became continual. I would have a taste for ice cream and he would be turning off the road, driving into the parking lot of an ice cream stand. My mouth would be dry and he would be handing me a breath mint, as I was about to ask for one. He would start to ask me for directions and I would be telling him which way to turn before he could complete his question. This interpersonal sensitivity became so constant that I began babbling about it. He simply shook his head, Don’t you understand? When you talk about it, it isn’t happening. Ah, yes. There is knowing (experiencing) something and then there is knowing about something. If you’re there and start talking about being there, you’re no longer there, but rather, in a state of being of talking about being there.

My major lesson of that two-week interaction as well as the key to understanding trip philosophy was simply, to live directly as opposed to the aboutism of straight society. With mass communication and the information explosion, each of us is aware of so many things with so much of our schooling predicated on learning about things. We have the illusion of knowing quite a bit. I learned, however, that with regard to certain modes of existence and experience that we know less than a simple savage. Although drugs are a magnifier of certain aspects of experience as well as a source of change, they are not necessary for tripping. Indeed, per head philosophy, each of us, whether we know it or not, is in on the trip. We are all tripping. Always. Each of us is a traveler. The only thing constant in nature is change. Changing is. It is impossible to stand still. Whether our trip be viewed as a journey through life, the life-death process, itself, or as a cyclical sleeping and awakening, it is not possible to stop it, for even death, as Shakespeare noted, may be just another phase.

My interactions with this friend left me both curious and confused. What, exactly, did all of this mean? Live in the present. Live directly. Experience. I spent the fall adjusting to academic life, caught up in new friends and study. Although I had some ego problems (going from a senior analyst playing a small but important role in a multi-million dollar merger to a first year graduate student was a little like asking me to sweep the floor when I had been designing buildings), I adjusted well to graduate school, thoroughly enjoying it and loving Florida.

Although I took a modicum of grass with me to graduate school, I stayed straight and had some success. I was still curious and confused about both drugs and the philosophy to which I had been exposed. Over Christmas break, I returned to Chicago and together with another friend drove to the west coast in order to visit my mentor and learn more about this new way of life. There, I met hippies, got involved in endless discussions with THC, strong grass and a mescaline trip changing my perceptual world. As I prepared to fly home to Chicago, I was still light tripping on the mescaline; I asked my old friend and current guide for some marijuana, as I was not one of the in crowd at school. I needed to more fully explore this world.

As a goodbye present, he threw me a quarter pound or so of decent marijuana. When I asked the price, he replied, The first bag is free. It would take me a full week before I came completely down from the mescaline. I had a physical release in about three days. The psychological release came at a marathon encounter group a few days later, when my fellow graduate students accused me of sitting in the corner like some kind of all-knowing Buddha. This, of course, was exactly what I had been doing, musing in my other world loftiness at their petty this-world concerns.

I spent winter quarter smoking grass and making new friends. I attempted to understand this alternative culture with its emphasis on living NOW as well as its lack of concern with materialism and the structures and standards of mainstream American society.

That spring, on my 28th birthday, I took my first acid trip. I no longer had to attempt to understand the NOW or IN society, the alternative culture of peace, love and happiness freaks. I became one. Tripping and the lifestyle associated with it became my way of life. That spring is perhaps the happiest time of my life. I went from an anxious, balding materialist to a person that I truly loved. Physically, I lost some 30 lb., including 4 inches off of my waist, began walking tall and straight, let my hair grow long (it stopped falling out) and both felt and looked years younger. I stopped smoking cigarettes, stopped drinking alcohol, ate less meat, and generally took good care of myself.

I was in love—with a young woman, with myself and with the northern Florida countryside. It was a time of rebirth and rejuvenation, with my life permeated with the discovery of self, others and nature. I was reborn both emotionally and spiritually. Although I smoked grass and tripped on weekends, it wasn’t just the drugs. I also did yoga, became good friends with so many bright, young people and fell in love with nature.

As all things must change, however, so did my euphoric state of mind. We had a saying, Some people have dreams; we live ours. The extended daydream of living simply and lovingly began changing to a world of paranoia and depression. Old concerns began plaguing me. Could I hold on and get that doctorate? What about money, status and the future? My life was nice, even beautiful, but what about tomorrow? I couldn’t sit under a tree for the rest of my life. Could I?

First of all, I fell into depression. The entire world is a game; no game is worth playing. Why bother to do anything? Nothing really mattered. From a way of life that had freed up dreams and energy, I fell into lying around wasted and confused. Then, there was the paranoia. At the beginning of the summer, my friends and I had heard about drug busts. Then it was friends and acquaintances that were getting popped. Finally, the people that had been over last night were now in jail. Were we next? It was as though an ever-tightening web was closing in on us. I retreated from my fear and climbed out of my stupor by returning to Chicago. After a year of search and study, I was surprisingly able to return to my former company with both a raise and promotion.

Although I returned straight, I had been exposed to a world of wonder. Both tripping and yoga had blown me away, exposing me to a world that I had not even been able to dimly imagine.

Tripping. What is it? So many authors such as Huxley and Watts have written erudite descriptions of it; so many burnouts have told their stories. So many of us have seen friends and loved ones destroy themselves. The world, it is different now. I am no longer any kind of expert on any kind of drug; originally, however, it was very important to me to attempt to analyze and describe the experience.

Simply, you take a chemical. This causes chemical changes in the brain and central nervous system leading to a radically changed perceptual world. To me, taking a psychedelic was like having a very intense dream while awake. Basically anything could happen, including very little.

Initially, I could externalize anything that my imagination or fantasy life could come up with. Pictures on the wall would begin moving; melting wax on a candle could become an intricate mini-universe and so on. The major difference between the trip experience and certain types of psychosis is that when tripping, one normally knows that that dancing tiger is really just a wall hanging. In