2/10/00

Sunday 17/9 – Monday 18/9 constituted my last written piece and after that I was living
far too intensely to write anything. From Tuesday 19th to Friday 22nd I was on a wild paranoid (or
maybe not) ride triggered by Helen calling out the C.A.T. (Crisis Assessment & Treatment Team)
who arrived just as I was about to leave on a longish trip with Helens prior agreement. She had
contacted them in secret for reasons best known to herself. For me that moment was like a scene
from a B-grade movie with a car pulling up and a guy who looked like a computer nerd and
another who looked like an israeli soldier in civvies jumping out and trying to prevent me from
leaving. That set the pattern for the rest of the trip as I broke free of Helen’s grip and reversed out
of the drive threatening to run over the goons from whom or whoever was their boss I was on the
run for the next 3½ days. In those days I lived years, dodging & driving in circles regardless of
day or night and obeying no pattern other than what my instinct willed on me. I believed I was
being pursued and progressively got rid of everything I imagined could produce radiations that
could be tracked. Somewhere in the western suburbs I parked over a culvert (already earlier I had
crawled under the van a couple of times looking for tags that might have been attached there to
transmit a signal) and crawling under the car threw the mobile into it because I have heard that
they omit enough radiation to be tracked by sophisticated equipment even when they are
switched off. The U.S. defence establishment has for years been able to detect any designated
phone call even on ordinary lines by using satellites that record radiations on the earths surface.
The aussies apparently contribute to this capacity with some joint facilities. Later I decided that
nearly all modern things have low level radiations built into them so that scanners could read bar
codes (etc) so I burnt my key cards because of the strips on them. In another spot I threw away
my digital walkman style disk player (& two Charles Gayle CDs) and a brand new cassette
player (& my much valued cassette of the Mujicians). Yes, I was paranoid and driving along
country lanes and byways in an effort to avoid microwave dishes (usually situated on mountain
tops) as I though they might be able to read radiations from a tag placed on the van that was too
small for me to find. I have read that U.S. airmen downed in enemy territory have a tag about the
size of a coin which they attach to a tree or something and wait nearby for up to several days
while high flying aeroplanes packed with computers and decoding devices zero in on them. I
kept hearing high flying jets (probably on the Sydney-Adelaide route) that I though could be
there for that purpose as I had heard a news item (on the only occasion I turned on the radio) that
there was some military exercise in progress (it was during the olympic games) and people were
to watch out for anyone trying to sell military sensitive material). Assuming that it was possible I
was carrying a homing device (I had heard a motor bike pull up outside our place a few nights
earlier and what sounded like my van being fiddled with; when I remarked as much to Helen she
said it was only noises from our fridge) and, in view of the importance I attach to the date
‘10/1/01’ (the subject of my final piece) I drove to Ararat (to make a symbolic connection to
Moses) and at the gate of a property called Nirvana I traced out 10/1/01 by driving the van to
make the the figures hoping that the microwave dish on a ridge of the Grampians nearby was
close enough to compute in such detail but that the decoding procedures might take days. I was
imagining everything including that I might be in a virtual reality show having heard there is
some huge company out there that claims to be there for that purpose and whose ownership is
unclear and could include the U.S. defence establishment. I was scared of the U.S. secret service
because Brian Maclure had told me that Mahanewo (see story ‘14/8/41’) can be broken up in to
Mahan – ewo, Mahan being the name of a U.S. electonics warfare ship and EWO being the
insignia of a rank meaning Electronics Warfare Officer. I have the impression from my reading
that the secret service establishments of various countries are staffed by heaps of fools who have
nothing better to do than decode remote possibilities. Have my stories by chance (and I am very
subject to chance) put me into some game the big guys (spies of the U.S. etc) are playing or
confounding each other with. In a place where I spent some time dozing (& drinking wine
(Dubonnet) I left a little glass statue of the buddha which I had in the car having found it on one
of my trips. I wanted to make a statement about wisdom as commentary on the schemings of
spies. I spent that night (which one was it?) in several places always reinforcing my defences
with alcohol; after running out of Dubonnet which is my preferred I switched to Ramazzotti of
which I had about 8 bottles left as I had left with the hope of going to a great party of likeminded
people where we all would get drunk on wine because it symbolized the blood of jesus christ.
Yes, yes … I was mad! Even before Helen put the goons on me! Alls well that ends well
however. When I got home on the friday the kids were all there and very supportive. The
discovery I made then was that I had also been put on the missing persons file (on what grounds?
because if anyone knows how not to get lost in this country its me; after all I was wearing my
black t-shirt with the map of australia on it and I had my compass) (and since then I’ve
discovered that the decision to put me on that file was a family decision and that the Calder
Highway was nominated as my likely route as I was supposed to be heading for Lake Gairdner
along my preferred route and I might add that a year ago I was pulled up just out of Malmsbury
by a cop whose one task was to check drivers licences (I assumed it was an exercise in tightening
security with the olympic games in view) whats more I know cops have the power to pull me off
the road permanently as if they find just a scratch on me windscreen they can put me into a
garage and force me to get a roadworthy which involves about 100 points on the car and which
even most new cars cant pass and which if you fix all of them you get a RWC for 1 month only;
with an old van like mine there is not a chance that all those points could be kept in order or
fixed no matter how well I maintain the car which is real well. Then if the car cannot be brought
up to scratch the garage is bound by law to destroy it. Thats the letter of the law in Vic.land but
in N.S.W. you can get a much less stringent RWC as long as you renew it each year. In South
Australia they dont have any of this nonsense and I suppose if I was to try to avoid being picked
up by the cops on false pretext (which fortunately they are not inclined to use unless perhaps
directed by a Jeff Kennett type as a ploy to get rid of the greenies all of whom drive old cars) I
would have to reside in S.A. Also in S.A. I would be able to avoid the C.A.T. team order and the
community police who in Victoria would have put me in a hospital and pumped me full of drugs
for my own good and then put an order on me (by the shrinks) that would have forced me to
continue taking drugs (perhaps long term slow release ones administered by injection) after my
release for good behaviour (& the high cost of my incarceration to the taxpayer into the
community). Because you see Helen had convinced the mental health authority that I was a
danger to myself (ie. I might commit suicide after drinking a lot of Ramazzotti) and the grounds
for incarcerating a person here is that he constitutes a danger to others or to himself. It stinks of
course. I have the right to choose my way of going even if it is dangerous to myself. It is an
essential part of my dignity that I be able to. I’ve watched various people like Vi, my mum, Noel
being cobbled up by the medical fraternity (at great expense to the taxpayer and good profit to
surgeons) in their old age so as to get them up on their feet to get cobbled up again very soon
afterwards (& again & again so that the oldies in their last few years of life cost more to
medicate than the entire rest of the community) and all to no avail coz it just doesnt work – they
cark it anyway. Thats the system and I was shopped by my own family so that I could be a part
of that system. But friends, let me put on record here, I dont want to be (& dont intend to (and
will not) be part of that shit, humiliating system.) I’m going to die under a lone tree in the desert
with a bit of dirty water in a claypan nearby or a desert island in a dry salt lake (Lake Gairdner?)
in the way that I’ve had visions of (two). In the way that a couple of months ago I saw an old
kangaroo trying to dream himself into the never never except that I disturbed him and he
staggered up uncomprehending why his dreamtime had been delayed. Why is it that a kangaroo
knows how to die with dignity better than we do? Anyway all that is in the future. For the time
being I survived another assault by the forces that protect normality for mine and others benefit. I
am pasting in an article where a well meaning mother argues that schizophrenic children and
altzheimers patients should be force fed drugs against their will for their own good and to save
taxpayers money.
Age p.27 Sept. 30th 2000
Caring for those who can’t know they’re ill
By Sally Smith
Ten years ago, my son was a normal, healthy 18-year-old. Since the onset of
schizophrenia, he has endured the awful side-effects of forced injections to numb his brain when
it spins his behaviour out of control.
His condition, and the medication used to control it, have trapped our son and his
parents in a hellish Catch-22.
Psychiatrists sell us that not having the insight to acknowledge the illness is part of the
illness. Therefore, he does not take the new generation of drugs that could stabilize it without
severe side-effects.
The only time he gets medication is when he is forced into hospital every few months –
when he fits the criteria of the Mental Health Act of being a danger to himself or others. The new
medications work much better than the old, even in small doses. They target the particular area
of the brain affected by schizophrenia, rather than blanketing the whole brain. But they must be
taken regularly because each time treatment is ceased, higher doses are required.
When my son reaches breaking point from not having taken his medication, the drugs he
is given in hospital are necessarily the old “blanketing type”. His resentment and paranoia
increases, and as soon as he leaves or escapes from hospital he evades his community treatment
orders by becoming itinerant or moving interstate. (Community treatment orders require patients
to accept treatment once they leave hospital. If the patient does not comply, then they can be
readmitted to hospital against their will, but the orders are only enforceable in the state that
issues them.)
This vicious cycle creates a great sense of urgency in those who love him. We have
watched it play out for several years, rocketing from crisis to crisis, desperate for him to realise
he has an illness and to take the new medication before he becomes irretrievably damaged.
Recently I attended a lecture in Melbourne about advances in schizophrenia drugs. As
the research scientist explained the need for carers to ensure the medication was taken
consistently there came a whispered “Blah blah, blah blah, blah blah” from the seat on my right.
When I turned I saw a stylish woman in her 40s, and instantly recognised from the
expression in her eyes a fellow traveller. “They know everything but they understand nothing”,
she said wearily.
My heart had also plummeted at the lecturer’s words. With the advent of the new
medications hope is raised then taken away because the reality is that my son, like thousands of
other young people with this illness, will not take medication.
Afterwards, we compared notes on our experiences, and the discussion soon
disintegrated into a Monty Pythonesque competition about which of us had endured the greatest
suffering.
Events since last May placed Anna and her daughter, Danielle (not their real names), in
the lead by a country mile.
Danielle was a beautiful and intelligent scholarship student attending a leading girls’
school when she lapsed into her first psychosis at 18. Now 26, she has had several hospital
admissions.
The past seven months, since she stopped medication and treatment, have been a
nightmare.
 She formed a relationship with a man who has paranoid schizophrenia. One of his
paranoid fears is that he is being pursued, so except for a few days before Danielle’s latest
admission to hospital, they have been living on the streets. Danielle has become increasingly ill,
both mentally and physically. Even on the coldest winter nights, she sleeps out clad only in a
light summer dress and summer shoes.
In the 21st century, surely Danielle has some civil rights other than being allowed to be
mad?
I regard myself as a civil libertarian, but surely if the nature of the illness does not allow
the patient to have the insight to realise they are ill, they should not be deprived of the right to
treatment.
The treatment, with its associated side-effects, often used to be worse than the illness, so
it was understandable a patient might be allowed to refuse it.
However, with the advent of newer drugs (which are said to improve more than 90 per
cent of cases with much fewer side-effects), is it not more humane to treat patients with these
medications against their will, rather than allow the illness to progress to the point the older
drugs are forced upon them?
It’s time for a change. The Mental Health Act allows treatment at some times of the
illness, but not at others. Patients have the right to be treated legally “against their will” while
in a “psychiatric crisis”, that is when they are a danger to themselves or others.
Would we force Alzheimer’s patients to take medication if an effective treatment was
available but they did not wish to take it? Or would we wait until the illness makes them too
debilitated to object?
Some say a new regime will cost more money. But think of the money spent on the
“revolving door” approach. Rather, a different allocation of money is required. We need a
mental health system that treats not just acute hospital patients or community patients but
includes an in-between, graduated rehabilitation inpatient/outpatient facility – yes, with job
search and gyms and swimming pools and supervision allowing young people to recover out of
danger, out of jail, off the streets.
Full treatment and rehabilitation would be cost effective in the long term.
A central registry for community treatment orders, legally effective for all of Australia
and New Zealand, is long overdue.
There is a whole lost generation out there, on the streets, in jail, on drugs, in squats, in
despair through no fault of their own.
It is time to make the changes that can bring them home.

Sally Smith is a pseudonym for a Victorian mother. She can be contacted at

sallismith@hotmail.com
 experiments with people require specialized
skills
mere manipulation is not enough
the surgeon is an expert dissector.
Even though vivisection is a precise science
there is no artistry in swapping legs or hearts or
producing a two-headed man who is always half-awake.
Tampering with souls involves
some expertise
but the true scientist is driven by a spirit of research
he is not the doctor but the experiment
he completes the apparatus loving
the subject (a special friend)
with mathematical purity.
The patient is a woman who cries
out in the strength of her pain and crumbles
with gentle fear.
She is warm and knows that it is her nature to be
a mother, to serve.
The blade is a good surgeon.

(This is an incomplete record of Anthology 11. It was introduced by the poem

“Manmademan” and continues after the poem above as photocopied pages of a …
z’s handwritten journal)