Monday, July 7, 2014
Stewing ideas
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Here's Rejected Sci Fi for Summer 2014!
THE END OF THE FOUR CATEGORIES
Jack Bragen
(This material is copyrighted.)
Jared was a foreman mole and was annoyed when one of his subordinates stopped shoveling. A hundred feet underground, communications conduit was being laid out as a part of the stadium under construction. The work should go smoothly.
Jared warned his worker, who was a stout mole of sixteen years.
The worker responded, in proper submissive tones, "I've dug up something. Someone maybe ought to see it."
Jared turned his head. The worker held up some type of skull. It was instantly clear that this skull was not that of modern day--it did not resemble a head any of the Four Categories. For one thing, it was huge and must have once contained some massive brain.
The workers in the cavern had stopped their work and were transfixed.
Jared warned: "All of you get back to work, or face punishment."
But the sight of the skull was too compelling. Had our ancestors been smarter than we? This one seemed to have a huge cranium.
Abruptly, all five workers in the tunnel put down their shovels, in outright defiance of the foreman. They took photographs and put the photos on microchips that they carried. They were determined that no one was going to take this sighting away from them. This was a rare act of true rebellion.
The skull of an ancient man pointed to a time when presumably there was but one breed of people, all of whom had the same rights and the same opportunities. The desire for this was supposedly bred out of the Moles and they were supposed to be devoted utterly to their work. But this apparently was not so.
Jared was infuriated. But there was nothing he could do…
***
A bookstore/coffeehouse had been rebuilt after a thirty-thousand-year hiatus. I frequented the place and I got a thrill from looking at the reconstructed paperback books. Coffee had faded out of existence long ago. However, a machine that could get imprints from the past had been invented, and one of the first things reconstituted was coffee beans.
An adolescent Eliteman slaughtered a good song from ancient history on his out-of-tune guitar. The Elite often had trouble finding something to do, and we Jacks would sometimes have to rescue them from some self induced folly. For example, one of them had tried to start a tattoo parlor, and had given the first customer some serious puncture wounds due to total ignorance of tattooing.
Society was in a phase of trying vainly to recapture what appeared to be past glory. The Elite were spearheading the movement. But I did enjoy the books and the coffee, anyway.
I took a sip of hot coffee and turned a page in a book. The bad guitarist hit a note that hurt my teeth. Across from me sat an Eliteman, Melbourne, in her thirties and executive director of the Stadium Project. I was supposed to show them deference since I was a Jack, but I had always resented that rule.
She said, "The Moles found something and I want you to go to the construction of the underground section and find out what it is."
I replied, "Found something? What, did they find a dinosaur fossil?"
"It does look like remains--those of our pre differentiated ancestors. You are not to tell anyone of this."
I replied, "Why not? Are we talking about social unrest?"
Melbourne didn't answer the question and the implication was that it was a stupid question that didn't need to be answered.
I sat and matched her silence, and I took another sip of coffee. I wondered what the appeal of it had been, a bitter drink--and you could get the same effect in pill form. Despite this thought, I continued to drink it and I didn't know why. (There had been something else--it was called beer. The bureaucrats had not yet approved it.)
Melbourne said, "Someone may want to bring back a non-evolved undifferentiated specimen." She paused. "We are looking at a possibility of careless breeding coming back, and with it, the blurring of lines." She looked around the coffee shop to assure herself that there weren't any eavesdroppers. Plenty of technology existed to surveil people, but doing so was a rarity.
I ventured, "People in all four categories could be upset if they think we have devolved."
Melbourne was surprised. "Who told you the remains were of a bigger-brained version?"
"No one did," I replied. "But I expected as much."
Jacks had the second largest brains of the Four Categories, with Eliteman class having a small edge. There were some Jacks who worked in science and whose work exceeded that, embarrassingly, of the Eliteman people. Usually the Jacks weren't given proper credit for such work, and instead it went to the supervising Eliteman.
"Be careful you do not rise above your station," warned Melbourne.
I backpedaled, "Many apologies. It wasn't intelligence but a lucky guess."
"You may start on your assignment tomorrow morning," Melbourne said. "I have already issued you electronic authorization to go to the site."
***
The new technology, tentatively being called, "Remote Replication," allowed people to reverse the clock on matter. This meant that you could take a deceased and defunct specimen and trace backward in time to obtain an earlier image, and it would become a revived young specimen. Compared to standard replicators, which had been around a long time, these machines were fairly complex.
These machines, which, despite their sophistication, had nonetheless become relatively easy to manufacture, were starting to cause a disruption in the status quo. With the discovery of an ancient human skeleton, as well as the realization that it may have, in some ways, been superior, the Elitemen were in a panic and were pressuring the Gov's (the class of bureaucrats and law enforcement) to do something. And I, merely a Jack, had been put in the middle of all of this. My assignment, tacitly, was to eradicate evidence of the previous species as well as eliminate any specimens on which reversal could be done.
***
The underground tunnel was dank, dark, cramped and odorous. I reached for my flashlight and this resolved the lack of lighting. I had to stand with bowed head, which was something the moles hadn't had to do, since they were characteristically short and squat. Jared was in the tunnel also, and I had met him before.
"I think this is about where the bones were found," Jared said. He indicated a slightly more dug up spot where the construction crew had been digging. I was carrying a small, long-handled shovel, and with this I dug a little bit in the claylike earth. Pieces of bone were immediately uncovered. I heard a gasp from Jared.
I asked, "How far along are we at laying the communications conduit?"
Jared responded, a bit of pride leaking into his voice, "Nearly done. What remains is to attach one inline connection piece and cover the whole thing."
I asked, "Can you do that right now, without the help of your workers?"
"I suppose I could, but does that fix your problem?"
"I have a sack of old-style concrete sitting ready a couple of levels up. I intend to seal off all of this," I replied.
This was all well and good except for the fact that someone had been hiding nearby and had been watching us. Now she made herself known, and she had a deadly weapon trained on us. She was a Jack, and the weapon was quite illegal, but I am sure this was irrelevant.
"Who do you think you are?" she said. Under other circumstances the female Jack would have been quite appealing and I would have probably asked for her phone number.
I immediately replied, "We're here to do a job. The motives are innocent, and we are acting on behalf of the good of the people."
"I think you're full of bull. What is to stop me from killing you both where you stand?"
"You haven't done so yet," I said. "Why don't you forget about it and nobody needs to know that this happened?" I had unobtrusively activated my phone, and the audio was headed for law enforcement.
The woman Jack assailant pulled a tiny square box from her pocket but kept her weapon readied. "See this? Your phone signal is jammed. Think you're smarter than me?"
Sweat broke out on my forehead.
"What do you want us to do?" Jared implored.
"See that canvas sack over there? You guys are going to collect artifacts from this tunnel and put them in that sack. And you're going to collect a lot of them. People deserve to know their history. You do not have the authority to decide this."
In my mind I agreed with her statement, and I felt ashamed for blithely accepting the assignment.
"Ok, we'll do it. There is no need to shoot us," I said.
The assailant seemed to realize that I doubted her resolve to shoot us. It wasn't the fact that it was a female who threatened us. I just sensed something, perhaps I sensed that I wasn't dealing with someone willing to kill. On the other hand, Jared seemed genuinely afraid. He stopped down and began to dig with his fingers. I got the canvas sack and put it next to Jared, and then I started digging tentatively with my shovel in another area.
In the next thirty minutes, a number of bone fragments along with some other interesting items made their way into the canvas bag. (One item looked like what was left of a primitive attempt at an artificial heart valve; another item I recognized as a badly corroded printed circuit board left from early man's feeble attempts at electronics.)
I paused to wipe the sweat off my brow, and I looked in the direction of the female Jack who still held the weapon but wasn't pointing it.
I ventured, "My name is Steve."
Instead of reciprocating the name introduction, the Jack raised her weapon and took aim at me…
***
I came to consciousness and was totally disoriented, and found I was within some type of enclosure. I tried to raise an arm and realized I was tied down. I panicked and struggled against the restraints. In the process of this I pulled a muscle, and this gave me agonizing pain.
My enclosure opened up, and the woman who I remembered had threatened me with a gun while I had been on an assignment, untied me. I was completely baffled, and I struggled my way out of the enclosure with no interference from my former assailant. I looked at my surroundings. I was probably within a bedroom of a house that had been refitted to function as a lab.
The female Jack said, "My name is Marge."
"What happened to me?"
"I had to shoot and kill you because you were interfering with what needed to get done." Marge paused.
"I don't feel very dead," I replied.
"I turned back your clock. You're a remote replication."
I had to ask the one hundred thousand dollar question: "Did you bring back any viable specimens from the fossils?"
"We have one." I thought from how she sounded that there was a problem with the specimen.
"It sounds problematic," I replied.
Marge said, "He is violent, and we do not understand any of his speech. He is disoriented."
"Where is he?" I asked.
"We had to set up a room for him. He is in this building."
"And what building would that be? Where am I?" It baffled me that I might be at a concealed location, considering the amount of electronic tracking that had been in existence for the past umpteen thousand years.
"Do you really think I am foolish enough to answer that? Do you know why you were brought back?"
I paused. "You need me for something?"
"We were under the impression you were a smart man."
***
I viewed the specimen on a monitor screen. It was a grotesque thing, it had a mop of "hair" on a large area of its head, its hands were improperly formed, it was overly muscled, and its cranium was huge. I felt a knot forming in my stomach. The technology had been used to create another of me at a point before being shot in the tunnel. My memory of the tunnel did not go beyond the moment just before being shot.
The prehistoric creature paced back and forth in its room and was speaking in an incomprehensible primitive language, in very angry tones. Periodically it would pound its fists on the heavy, solid wood door to its room, and the door resounded with the impact. This thing was strong.
I said, "Maybe feeding this beast would make it more agreeable."
Marge said, "That's too obvious! I will prepare him something right away."
"And you probably expect me to bring the food to this ogre." The knot in my stomach became worse. "How do you expect me to do that without getting attacked?"
Marge said, "You're a smart man. Figure something out."
Marge stepped outside of the room in which I had reappeared, and I followed her. I was definitely in a house, and there were a couple of male Jacks in the adjacent room who had been standing guard. They were armed with illegal weapons. I realized they had been worried I might act uncivilized upon being brought back. In which case, I suppose they would have shot me a second time around.
"I'd rather you stay in that room," said Marge. One of the male Jacks made a gesture with his weapon. I turned about and went back into the room. I realized that I was a bit hungry, too. And I also realized that I was a prisoner.
Marge handed me a plate of food, of the standard, synthetic type.
I said, "Okay, show me to the door for the specimen. I'll just try this now and hope for the best." I was led down the hallway again to a room on which the door was a lot heavier and stronger, compared to the other doors in the house. Marge pressed a button on the wall, and the door swung open. I walked in, and the prehistoric man spun around and faced me. I held up the tray of food. The creature toned it down, said an unknown word in a more agreeable tone, and accepted the food tray. I turned around, stepped out, and the door closed behind me. "He has potential," I said.
Marge appeared grateful. She led me back to the first room I was in and gave me a plate of food. I ate and then I realized that Marge sat across from me without speaking. I detected a hint of admiration. "A peaceful settlement of your situation in which no one is terminated or indicted is preferable," she said.
I replied, "I hope you won't kill me again and I will make myself useful. If you release me, all I can do is to give you my word that I will not bring in law enforcement. That may sound corny, but I will not go back on my word."
I was lying. Of course, if released, I would turn this Jack over to the bureaucrats for prosecution. Anyone who plays god with me--in this case, someone guilty of killing, unkilling and kidnapping me--needed to be punished for that.
"You did an excellent job of calming down that beast. We have much more use for you."
It took effort for me to conceal disgust. These people, in complete disregard for the law and not caring for the good of anyone but themselves, had brought a being back to life that ought to get the rest in peace that it deserved. And why were they doing this? Did this amuse them? I looked over my shoulder and noted that one of the two male Jacks with weapons stood nearby, just outside the doorway, and was keeping an eye on me.
I ventured, "Do you have any Elitemen in your group?"
I wanted to gather as much information as possible, but knew that I needed to do this as inconspicuously as possible.
"I can't give you that information."
Marge's tone warned me that I needed to be very careful of what questions I was asking and of how I behaved. At this point, I doubted that she was fooled by the speech I had given about not breaking my word.
Would they shoot me if they decided I wasn't useful enough? I was not sure they wouldn't. Certainly it was to their advantage to do so, since as a witness I could get them convicted of substantial violations. I needed a plan. I started to think while I finished the last morsels of my lunch, and I tried to conceal that the wheels in my head were turning. Marge still sat across from me.
"If you knew some of the things that I know, you might join us of your own free will," she said. I looked at her and I realized she was an attractive Jack probably in her twenties. It occurred to me that the boy-girl thing might be up with her, and I might be able to use that to my advantage.
I said, "Okay, I'm listening."
Marge proceeded to describe a great cataclysm in ancient history that very nearly wiped out the entire species of our predecessors. She said to me that people had become too arrogant and believed there were no consequences to irresponsible actions. There had been numerous incidents of warfare which were disputes over political power and dominance, and these military actions had wrecked the atmosphere.
"And yet…" she paused. "Our predecessors lived fuller, more authentic, more joyous lives. They had mental faculties beyond what we had in present day, and these faculties coexisted with core brains that were primitive and that delivered the same sets of emotions as our reptilian ancestors which had existed a hundred million or more years previous." She had a tear that ran down her cheek. "It was these primitive emotions that spelled their downfall, but it is these same emotions that could potentially give us all a more worthwhile existence."
I was done with my plate of food, and I looked around the table and spotted a fresh napkin, which I used to wipe the tears off her face. It was a deliberately seductive move and one that I could get away with.
"Marge…" It took all the effort I had not to speak, and realized I could not hold my tongue. "What gives you the right?" I had intended to speak in an even tone, but my voice boomed with outrage. "This poor creature--its life is over and it deserves to rest. What gives you the right to bring him here? There is no way he could adapt. And he has had his time, and that time is over. You are playing god."
***
I was disoriented and in a fog, and I realized I was once again in an enclosure. I was abruptly agitated and I wanted to scream. I wanted to pound on the transparent material, but my wrists were tied down. My eyes came into focus. I saw three grotesque faces. The faces were those of the primitives, like the individual I had seen. They spoke among themselves and their voices were muffled by the barrier that enclosed me. Their tone of voice told me they were probably commenting that I was grotesque.
The enclosure opened, and I was relieved to breathe fresh air. The closest of the three primitives immediately untied my wrists. I was not about to get unruly--the primitives were physically far more muscled than I.
I sat up. One of the three put a gentle hand on my shoulder, while another measured my head (smaller than theirs) with calipers. A blood sample was taken.
"Many apologies," said a voice that I guessed was electronically translated. "You are welcome to be our guest, or, if you would rather, we can administer euthanasia. We hope your restoral is not excessively disturbing. We brought you back because we are conducting a study…"
I looked around the room. It was bizarre and filled with equipment I couldn't recognize. Apparently the primitives who had been brought back must have proliferated and must have replaced The Four Categories. I had no clue as to how many years or perhaps centuries had passed.
There was no sign of Marge, and I wondered if she had ordered me shot. I wondered if the euthanasia offered to me might be for the best, since I probably would not be able to adapt to the world in which the people I once knew had all been replaced with primitives who had returned.
Friday, June 6, 2014
A MEDITATION ESSAY BY JACK BRAGEN
MINDFULNESS AND THE RELEASE OF FEAR
Jack Bragen
Sometimes, I am in my living room, I am meditating as I do, and when I release painful or fearful energy, the dog inexplicably starts barking. Perhaps the energy is fleeing from my aura and going to the dog. At other times, she barks when I am forgetting to "take it lightly," perhaps because there is upset energy in the room. Sweetpea is often a good barometer of tension among humans. She is also a challenge since she is one of life's spontaneous events.
As a man with a mental illness that includes problems with anxiety and tension, bouts with depression, and a thought disorder that must be kept under control, I have more emotions to deal with than does a typical human being.
There is definitely a role for mindfulness in my life—that of making difficult situations more manageable. However, my mindfulness practices also require a lot of effort and a lot of focus.
I am with my wife in Wal-Mart and she is shopping while I feel anxiety and dread. I try to remind myself to use my cognitive tools. I am following my wife around as she tries on garments and I am reminding myself that I am actually okay.
One of my cognitive tools is to use the mere idea that I am okay. Doing this potentially nullifies the effects of suffering. Suffering relies on blocking out the insight that I have nothing to worry about, and must maintain a monopoly over my mind, keeping me ignorant.
Even with this knowledge, I am still struggling. I am a man of many fears as well as many aspirations.
Due to the fact that my cars have broken down and I have had mishaps with public transportation, I have been stranded a number of times. Thus, I am phobic about travel. I have a great deal of fear concerning the government; this is because I was incarcerated briefly at a young age. Furthermore, I was threatened and held hostage by armed robbers in a supermarket where I worked at age nineteen, and because of the fear invoked by that history, sometimes I have a problem with retail stores.
My phobias are based on exaggerations of what could happen. Meditation helps with them some of the time, but I am also working with a "hardware" defect in my brain.
Sometimes anxiety takes over my mind, immobilizes me, and limits my every action. I become unconscious and I lack an avenue that could allow insight to find its way in. My emotions have a tendency for blocking out the consciousness that could potentially bring resolution.
I often think that if I could master all of my fear, I would become an immensely powerful being. I would not have to restrict my activities due to the invisible cage of fear in which I find myself. I would be able to generate wealth, be a master of relationships; I might even be able to travel.
I was diagnosed thirty years ago as being paranoid schizophrenic. If the diagnosis was accurate, and I believe so, I am doing very well considering what I am up against.
When I practice mindfulness, it includes methods that I have reinvented for myself. I have a "system" in which I reinterpret the experience of suffering to make suffering into a neutral event. When I succeed in doing that, generally my body feels better and I obtain relief.
The meditation I do would not resemble Zen to an outside observer. Often, on an as needed basis, I have learned how to obtain relief from excessive painful emotions. My practices involve pinpointing are reinterpreting painful emotions.
When I do suffer emotionally, something I can not absolutely avoid, I take the suffering less seriously, and it is relegated to experiencing a lot of discomfort rather than the experience that life is hopeless.
Sometimes this entails a lot of concentration. Sometimes I perform the meditation in advance to deal with an anticipated difficult situation, while sometimes I can do these practices while I am in the middle of such a situation. The latter is a more advanced mode.
It is a release if I can let go of being wrapped up in my fate.
Fearlessness is apparently a quality worth having. It does not mean that you are immune to harm or to negative consequences. It simply means that you are not generating that emotion.
It would not be accurate to scoff that the need for psychiatric medication is contrary to being able to meditate. Despite the fact that I utilize mindfulness, I take anti anxiety medication in addition to other psychiatric medications. My mentally ill brain produces a lot more problems than does the gray matter of other meditation practitioners. Medication gets my brain into the "ballpark" of viable mental functioning.
It seems that I have some kind of "spark" that allows me to function as a "sane" person despite having a psychotic condition that by all rights should have me utterly lost.
My ability to focus my mind, as well as intelligently direct myself, to me indicates that I am using a resource that goes deeper than my physical brain. This resource has allowed me to identify and negate a lot of my delusional thoughts, and to pierce the illusion that incorrectly says emotional level suffering is such a horrible thing.
Hopefully in practicing mindfulness, I can transcend more and more of my suffering. But these biological creations that we inhabit will periodically produce at least some amount of suffering, even if we are not mentally involved in it. Giving up on the idea of not suffering reduces suffering. Deciding that it is okay to be afraid reduces fear.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Rejected Sci Fi for January 2014
FRANKENSTEIN REVISITED
Jack Bragen
I brought my date to the lab--she was an adulating, twenty-seven-year-old postgraduate. I thought it would impress her if I showed off the scientific work I was doing and pointed out that I supervised five subordinate scientists. I wasn't supposed to be showing this stuff to anyone--I was violating corporation policy in which I was supposed to be guarding trade secrets.
Anna looked around interestedly when I showed her a room where some of the specimens were kept.
"These are frogs that have been repaired while deceased and brought back to the pseudo living state that I was talking about." I pointed to a tank that had in it hyperactive frogs that showed odd signs of decay.
"Nice." Anna put her hand on my back.
My cellphone produced an emergency beep. I answered it: "Yes, this is Williams, it had better be important."
Mr. Jarold, who had been put on the night shift, was on the line. "We have an emergency in zone three. I need you here right away."
Highly inconvenient. But I couldn't ignore the emergency call.
I looked at Anna and couldn't help admiring her prettiness. "Can you wait here? This will only take a few minutes."
I would be leaving someone unwatched in the middle of a lab which was conducting secret experiments that could be worth literally billions of dollars. However, I couldn't bring her on the emergency and have her see dead human subjects.
"I had hoped we could go to my place," she reached to touch me again.
With much regret, I replied, "I have to go. There are some magazines next to that chair. Don't touch anything."
I got to the control room, and Jarold appeared immensely stressed. A tech manual written by Dr. Bates was next to the control panel with some of its pages torn out. When the tech manual comes out, you know something is very wrong. The coffee pot was shattered; pieces of glass were on the floor along with spilled coffee. Jarold had also apparently wet his pants. He pointed to the monitor.
In the tank there was a human subject in fairly good condition--it had been acquired shortly after death. It had broken free of the restraints and was now pounding on the entrance door to the tank. The thing was fully submerged in rehab solvent but did not seem to mind being unable to breathe. The reconstituted subjects did not have the physical requirement to breathe.
"It looks like success," I said. "What's the problem? Shouldn't we contact Bates?"
"Can't you see? Look at his arm!" Jarold sounded horrified but not excessively so.
I looked and realized that the one of the subject's arms was missing. And then I spotted the arm floating at the top of the tank. The dismembered limb was convulsing on its own as it floated.
"Not to worry," I reassured. "This could be normal. We need to contact Bates." I took out my phone.
"Shouldn't we let him out?" Jarold asked.
I replied, "I don't know. How will it behave? Will it be mad that we brought it back?" I paused. "He seems pretty ticked off."
Bates picked up my call. "I'm off for the weekend so I hope you have something monumental to report."
I said, "Your human test subject is animated, it is trying to get out of the resurrection tank, and one of its arms has detached."
"Is this some kind of joke?" A loud breath was audible on my cellphone. I realized he must have been asleep before picking up the line. "You're not kidding, are you?"
"This is for-real," I said.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Change nothing." He hung up.
Now I was in a position in which I had to do something with my date who was presumably reading magazines while waiting for me in the other end of the building. If my boss found out she was present, it would be the end of my job, and I might very well get sued. I wasn't willing to risk that.
"Jarold," I said. It was clear from my tone that I was going to ask for something. He cocked his head expectantly, with a grin.
"Say no more. I will tell Bates that you had to leave on a family emergency. You can return the favor later on."
When I got back to my area, I was surprised to see that my date wasn't there obediently reading a magazine. In fact, she was nowhere to be found. I called her cellphone. I heard a very faint ringtone coming from the restroom across the hallway. I went and pounded on the door. I continued to hear the ringtone and nothing else. I checked the doorknob and discovered it was unlocked. I went into the restroom, and immediately saw that my prospective girlfriend was spread-eagled on the toilet, was inanimate, was pale and was cold to the touch. I checked her pulse but already knew that she was dead. I would have some explaining to do.
I looked at my watch. In ten more minutes Dr. Bates would be on the premises. I remembered the stockpile of deceased people in a huge freezer a couple of doors down. And a cadaver cart was nearby in the hallway. Was it a bad idea? Yes, it was. Did I do it? Yes. I knew it was wrong and that I would certainly be caught for it, but the impulse of guilt had taken hold. I carted my date to the freezer room, to be a future subject for the resurrection experiment.
I was a scientist, yet my background check wasn't pristine. I had been accused and had foolishly made a plea deal ten years beforehand. I hadn't done the crime of which I had been accused, but I had been foolish enough to use a Public Defender. Jonathan Bates' background wasn't perfect either. Thus, to an extent, we understood each other. Also, I had developed a mistrust of police. I feared that if I brought the police into this, I would be blamed for my date's death.
I put my date into the body freezer, a machine that was designed to freeze bodies without causing cell damage. The machine hummed and hissed. Within about a minute, my date was frozen hard as rock. I immediately put her into one of the storage bays. Bates would be here by now. I had to go back.
When I got back to the control room, I saw Bates sitting, mesmerized by the monitor. He appeared pleased and excited. He glanced at me over his shoulder. "Were you ill?"
"Actually, I was," I replied. "Is the subject still animated?"
"He is, and I'm about ready to pop open a bottle of champagne."
Bates looked again at the monitor that showed the inside of the conversion tank. He had thrown a switch to drain the tank, and the fluid level was lowering. The reanimated dead person was gyrating, apparently suffering from massive agitation, while gripping his severed arm with his other hand. The arm was convulsing while the subject held it.
Bates looked at me up and down. "You must've really been sick. Do you need to see a doctor?"
I glanced in back of Bates at Jarold--he silently gave me the "high sign" that he wasn't going to rat on me. I looked at the monitor. Dead and reanimated or not, this thing was suffering. "Can this guy be given a shot or something?" I asked.
Bates snapped at me: "If you're squeamish all of a sudden, maybe you shouldn't be working here."
At that point, I was enraged, but held my tongue. I decided I didn't owe anything to Bates. I gave Jarold a surreptitious look.
Nonhuman mammals had not been used before using a human subject--this was due to increasing restrictions on animal experimentation. Legally speaking, there was a lot less red tape if a scientist used human cadavers. Having a human subject come to pseudo life was a significant breakthrough. Up until this moment, only frogs had been reinvigorated.
Now, I hated myself for participating in this abomination. Yet, I remembered that I was getting quite a good salary. I had a twinge in my gut when I remembered that I had just disposed of my date in a very improper manner. People would be asking questions.
I said, "You're going to sew the arm back onto the subject, right?"
Bates was annoyed. "You're bothering me with trivialities. Don't you see the success I have here?"
"Congratulations," I replied. "It really is a great accomplishment."
Bates was not buying my pseudo congratulations. "If you're not on board with what we are achieving, I can easily find someone to take your spot."
"Sorry," I backpedaled. "I really am not feeling well tonight."
"It seems that way," said Bates. "Go home and get some sleep."
The following Monday, I returned to work to discover that the subject who had been given pseudo life had been reunited with his arm, and he was being kept in a locked room. Bates was nowhere to be found. Jarold was watching the monitor screen intently. The monitor showed a man with horribly purplish skin, dressed in only a pair of briefs, who sat on a bed, and was motionless, staring straight ahead.
Jarold turned toward me. "Hi. Guess what I don't have to do that you're going to do."
A knot instantly formed in my stomach. Did Jarold know my secret? I feigned a joking tone of voice. "What have you got on me?" I said.
"I discovered your girlfriend in the freezer."
"Damn you," I blurted.
"I'm going to need privileges and money or I go to the police with your information." Jarold smiled sarcastically at me.
I stood within striking distance and for a moment contemplated hitting my subordinate. Instead of this I swallowed my outrage. "Fine, you bastard. What do I need to do?"
Jarold picked up a jug of sudsy ammonia, the type sold in supermarkets. "Our subject needs to drink this," he said. "And you're bringing it into his room."
How hard could that be? Was the subject going to kill me for giving it what it presumably needed? I grabbed the handle on the plastic bottle of ammonia, I grabbed the set of keys from a drawer, and I headed straight for the room that had the test subject. I opened the door without hesitating and I walked in.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. But I won't go into that right now--suffice it to say the odor was foul. I made eye contact with the test subject. It was as if I were dealing with a mountain lion--a wild creature that could attack and kill me if I gave it a reason, or just for amusement. I handed the bottle of ammonia to the ghastly looking thing. It grabbed the bottle instantly, uncapped it, and guzzled it down. Suds were on the subject's lips, and this apparently didn’t matter to him, or it.
"Let me know if you need anything else. Do you see the intercom on that wall?" I pointed to the intercom unit.
"Just tell me--when can I get out of here?" replied the subject. Its voice was thick with despair.
Lying to this poor creature didn't work for me. I replied, "I don't know. You will be given some more tests."
The reanimated man replied, "I need to see a doctor. Something is wrong with me. Where am I and why am I here?"
He looked at his shoulder where his arm had been reconnected, and with a finger, tugged at the stitches which were made of heavy, stainless steel wire.
I started toward the door. The test subject made a move as though he would try to block me.
"No worries," I said. "You're being taken care of."
The subject backed off a bit, and I got out the doorway as quick as I could and latched the heavy steel door.
The reanimation process changed water based life into ammonia based life. The laboratory had invented pills to provide energy to the subjects that could be taken along with the ammonia. Normal food was out of the question. It was anticipated that reanimated men and women would have far greater physical strength than a living person, at least within the first few years. An approximate guess of their lifespan was a maximum of eight years--the subjects' tissues were reinforced by the change, but could not regenerate.
I went back to the observation room and made eye contact with Jarold. "You'll regret it--I'll see to that," I said.
"I'm real scared…" Jarold was mocking. "What was her cause of death?"
I said nothing and mustered my meanest look. Jarold thought I was bluffing. He was mistaken.
Jarold continued: "Your girlfriend--what killed her?" He paused for a good twenty seconds--I did not respond. He grinned with that sadistic grin once again. "You mean you don't know?"
My rage took hold. There was a shelf nearby that had on it flasks of undiluted chemicals. I grabbed the nearest of them, uncapped it, and splashed Jarold's face with the contents.
Unlike in the practices of numerous businesses and labs, there were no surveillance cameras in many areas of the Bates Corporation building. It was a precaution of Bates to lessen the likelihood of criminal prosecution or civil liability. The less evidence that existed, the better off Bates believed he would be. This worked in my favor.
Jarold wailed horribly, and his face was essentially burned off. He was having trouble breathing, and then was spread-eagled and motionless on his desk chair. The smell of human flesh incinerated with acid made me nauseous.
I was well past the point of no return. I located a cart and put Jarold on it, careful not to get acid on myself. I then wheeled Jarold into the body freezer, flipped a lever, and Jarold was frozen.
Not knowing what else I should do, I left a note for Bates that simply said that I was resigning. I went home and got drunk. After a few more months, I realized that the police weren't going to come for me. Apparently, Bates must have had as much to hide as I did.
It was a Saturday morning when I was woken by a loud knock on my door. My gut sank. I looked through the peephole, and saw a woman in a t-shirt and a baseball cap. I was relieved it wasn't a cop, and thought it was probably a new neighbor. I opened the door.
I recognized Anna, my date of a few months earlier--although she now had a horrible, pale, purplish complexion.
"Are you still interested in dating?" she asked. She pulled a gun from her back pocket and readied it to shoot…
Jack Bragen
I brought my date to the lab--she was an adulating, twenty-seven-year-old postgraduate. I thought it would impress her if I showed off the scientific work I was doing and pointed out that I supervised five subordinate scientists. I wasn't supposed to be showing this stuff to anyone--I was violating corporation policy in which I was supposed to be guarding trade secrets.
Anna looked around interestedly when I showed her a room where some of the specimens were kept.
"These are frogs that have been repaired while deceased and brought back to the pseudo living state that I was talking about." I pointed to a tank that had in it hyperactive frogs that showed odd signs of decay.
"Nice." Anna put her hand on my back.
My cellphone produced an emergency beep. I answered it: "Yes, this is Williams, it had better be important."
Mr. Jarold, who had been put on the night shift, was on the line. "We have an emergency in zone three. I need you here right away."
Highly inconvenient. But I couldn't ignore the emergency call.
I looked at Anna and couldn't help admiring her prettiness. "Can you wait here? This will only take a few minutes."
I would be leaving someone unwatched in the middle of a lab which was conducting secret experiments that could be worth literally billions of dollars. However, I couldn't bring her on the emergency and have her see dead human subjects.
"I had hoped we could go to my place," she reached to touch me again.
With much regret, I replied, "I have to go. There are some magazines next to that chair. Don't touch anything."
I got to the control room, and Jarold appeared immensely stressed. A tech manual written by Dr. Bates was next to the control panel with some of its pages torn out. When the tech manual comes out, you know something is very wrong. The coffee pot was shattered; pieces of glass were on the floor along with spilled coffee. Jarold had also apparently wet his pants. He pointed to the monitor.
In the tank there was a human subject in fairly good condition--it had been acquired shortly after death. It had broken free of the restraints and was now pounding on the entrance door to the tank. The thing was fully submerged in rehab solvent but did not seem to mind being unable to breathe. The reconstituted subjects did not have the physical requirement to breathe.
"It looks like success," I said. "What's the problem? Shouldn't we contact Bates?"
"Can't you see? Look at his arm!" Jarold sounded horrified but not excessively so.
I looked and realized that the one of the subject's arms was missing. And then I spotted the arm floating at the top of the tank. The dismembered limb was convulsing on its own as it floated.
"Not to worry," I reassured. "This could be normal. We need to contact Bates." I took out my phone.
"Shouldn't we let him out?" Jarold asked.
I replied, "I don't know. How will it behave? Will it be mad that we brought it back?" I paused. "He seems pretty ticked off."
Bates picked up my call. "I'm off for the weekend so I hope you have something monumental to report."
I said, "Your human test subject is animated, it is trying to get out of the resurrection tank, and one of its arms has detached."
"Is this some kind of joke?" A loud breath was audible on my cellphone. I realized he must have been asleep before picking up the line. "You're not kidding, are you?"
"This is for-real," I said.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Change nothing." He hung up.
Now I was in a position in which I had to do something with my date who was presumably reading magazines while waiting for me in the other end of the building. If my boss found out she was present, it would be the end of my job, and I might very well get sued. I wasn't willing to risk that.
"Jarold," I said. It was clear from my tone that I was going to ask for something. He cocked his head expectantly, with a grin.
"Say no more. I will tell Bates that you had to leave on a family emergency. You can return the favor later on."
When I got back to my area, I was surprised to see that my date wasn't there obediently reading a magazine. In fact, she was nowhere to be found. I called her cellphone. I heard a very faint ringtone coming from the restroom across the hallway. I went and pounded on the door. I continued to hear the ringtone and nothing else. I checked the doorknob and discovered it was unlocked. I went into the restroom, and immediately saw that my prospective girlfriend was spread-eagled on the toilet, was inanimate, was pale and was cold to the touch. I checked her pulse but already knew that she was dead. I would have some explaining to do.
I looked at my watch. In ten more minutes Dr. Bates would be on the premises. I remembered the stockpile of deceased people in a huge freezer a couple of doors down. And a cadaver cart was nearby in the hallway. Was it a bad idea? Yes, it was. Did I do it? Yes. I knew it was wrong and that I would certainly be caught for it, but the impulse of guilt had taken hold. I carted my date to the freezer room, to be a future subject for the resurrection experiment.
I was a scientist, yet my background check wasn't pristine. I had been accused and had foolishly made a plea deal ten years beforehand. I hadn't done the crime of which I had been accused, but I had been foolish enough to use a Public Defender. Jonathan Bates' background wasn't perfect either. Thus, to an extent, we understood each other. Also, I had developed a mistrust of police. I feared that if I brought the police into this, I would be blamed for my date's death.
I put my date into the body freezer, a machine that was designed to freeze bodies without causing cell damage. The machine hummed and hissed. Within about a minute, my date was frozen hard as rock. I immediately put her into one of the storage bays. Bates would be here by now. I had to go back.
When I got back to the control room, I saw Bates sitting, mesmerized by the monitor. He appeared pleased and excited. He glanced at me over his shoulder. "Were you ill?"
"Actually, I was," I replied. "Is the subject still animated?"
"He is, and I'm about ready to pop open a bottle of champagne."
Bates looked again at the monitor that showed the inside of the conversion tank. He had thrown a switch to drain the tank, and the fluid level was lowering. The reanimated dead person was gyrating, apparently suffering from massive agitation, while gripping his severed arm with his other hand. The arm was convulsing while the subject held it.
Bates looked at me up and down. "You must've really been sick. Do you need to see a doctor?"
I glanced in back of Bates at Jarold--he silently gave me the "high sign" that he wasn't going to rat on me. I looked at the monitor. Dead and reanimated or not, this thing was suffering. "Can this guy be given a shot or something?" I asked.
Bates snapped at me: "If you're squeamish all of a sudden, maybe you shouldn't be working here."
At that point, I was enraged, but held my tongue. I decided I didn't owe anything to Bates. I gave Jarold a surreptitious look.
Nonhuman mammals had not been used before using a human subject--this was due to increasing restrictions on animal experimentation. Legally speaking, there was a lot less red tape if a scientist used human cadavers. Having a human subject come to pseudo life was a significant breakthrough. Up until this moment, only frogs had been reinvigorated.
Now, I hated myself for participating in this abomination. Yet, I remembered that I was getting quite a good salary. I had a twinge in my gut when I remembered that I had just disposed of my date in a very improper manner. People would be asking questions.
I said, "You're going to sew the arm back onto the subject, right?"
Bates was annoyed. "You're bothering me with trivialities. Don't you see the success I have here?"
"Congratulations," I replied. "It really is a great accomplishment."
Bates was not buying my pseudo congratulations. "If you're not on board with what we are achieving, I can easily find someone to take your spot."
"Sorry," I backpedaled. "I really am not feeling well tonight."
"It seems that way," said Bates. "Go home and get some sleep."
The following Monday, I returned to work to discover that the subject who had been given pseudo life had been reunited with his arm, and he was being kept in a locked room. Bates was nowhere to be found. Jarold was watching the monitor screen intently. The monitor showed a man with horribly purplish skin, dressed in only a pair of briefs, who sat on a bed, and was motionless, staring straight ahead.
Jarold turned toward me. "Hi. Guess what I don't have to do that you're going to do."
A knot instantly formed in my stomach. Did Jarold know my secret? I feigned a joking tone of voice. "What have you got on me?" I said.
"I discovered your girlfriend in the freezer."
"Damn you," I blurted.
"I'm going to need privileges and money or I go to the police with your information." Jarold smiled sarcastically at me.
I stood within striking distance and for a moment contemplated hitting my subordinate. Instead of this I swallowed my outrage. "Fine, you bastard. What do I need to do?"
Jarold picked up a jug of sudsy ammonia, the type sold in supermarkets. "Our subject needs to drink this," he said. "And you're bringing it into his room."
How hard could that be? Was the subject going to kill me for giving it what it presumably needed? I grabbed the handle on the plastic bottle of ammonia, I grabbed the set of keys from a drawer, and I headed straight for the room that had the test subject. I opened the door without hesitating and I walked in.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. But I won't go into that right now--suffice it to say the odor was foul. I made eye contact with the test subject. It was as if I were dealing with a mountain lion--a wild creature that could attack and kill me if I gave it a reason, or just for amusement. I handed the bottle of ammonia to the ghastly looking thing. It grabbed the bottle instantly, uncapped it, and guzzled it down. Suds were on the subject's lips, and this apparently didn’t matter to him, or it.
"Let me know if you need anything else. Do you see the intercom on that wall?" I pointed to the intercom unit.
"Just tell me--when can I get out of here?" replied the subject. Its voice was thick with despair.
Lying to this poor creature didn't work for me. I replied, "I don't know. You will be given some more tests."
The reanimated man replied, "I need to see a doctor. Something is wrong with me. Where am I and why am I here?"
He looked at his shoulder where his arm had been reconnected, and with a finger, tugged at the stitches which were made of heavy, stainless steel wire.
I started toward the door. The test subject made a move as though he would try to block me.
"No worries," I said. "You're being taken care of."
The subject backed off a bit, and I got out the doorway as quick as I could and latched the heavy steel door.
The reanimation process changed water based life into ammonia based life. The laboratory had invented pills to provide energy to the subjects that could be taken along with the ammonia. Normal food was out of the question. It was anticipated that reanimated men and women would have far greater physical strength than a living person, at least within the first few years. An approximate guess of their lifespan was a maximum of eight years--the subjects' tissues were reinforced by the change, but could not regenerate.
I went back to the observation room and made eye contact with Jarold. "You'll regret it--I'll see to that," I said.
"I'm real scared…" Jarold was mocking. "What was her cause of death?"
I said nothing and mustered my meanest look. Jarold thought I was bluffing. He was mistaken.
Jarold continued: "Your girlfriend--what killed her?" He paused for a good twenty seconds--I did not respond. He grinned with that sadistic grin once again. "You mean you don't know?"
My rage took hold. There was a shelf nearby that had on it flasks of undiluted chemicals. I grabbed the nearest of them, uncapped it, and splashed Jarold's face with the contents.
Unlike in the practices of numerous businesses and labs, there were no surveillance cameras in many areas of the Bates Corporation building. It was a precaution of Bates to lessen the likelihood of criminal prosecution or civil liability. The less evidence that existed, the better off Bates believed he would be. This worked in my favor.
Jarold wailed horribly, and his face was essentially burned off. He was having trouble breathing, and then was spread-eagled and motionless on his desk chair. The smell of human flesh incinerated with acid made me nauseous.
I was well past the point of no return. I located a cart and put Jarold on it, careful not to get acid on myself. I then wheeled Jarold into the body freezer, flipped a lever, and Jarold was frozen.
Not knowing what else I should do, I left a note for Bates that simply said that I was resigning. I went home and got drunk. After a few more months, I realized that the police weren't going to come for me. Apparently, Bates must have had as much to hide as I did.
It was a Saturday morning when I was woken by a loud knock on my door. My gut sank. I looked through the peephole, and saw a woman in a t-shirt and a baseball cap. I was relieved it wasn't a cop, and thought it was probably a new neighbor. I opened the door.
I recognized Anna, my date of a few months earlier--although she now had a horrible, pale, purplish complexion.
"Are you still interested in dating?" she asked. She pulled a gun from her back pocket and readied it to shoot…
Thursday, January 2, 2014
OPINION PIECE FOR WINTER 2014
PERSONAL ESSAY: MINDFULNESS AND THE HARDSHIPS OF MENTAL ILLNESS
BY JACK BRAGEN
Adults with psychiatric illnesses sometimes seek spiritual teachings in the hope of understanding the cause of our problems and possibly solving those problems. Those whose illnesses are less severe are more likely to seek solutions through Buddhist-style mindfulness because they are not too impaired to try that. Those whose illness is more severe or whose intellect is compromised by the illness may never think that they could try meditation, much less study techniques.
Many people who suffer from a mental illness at those times when in treatment or remission do not have a cognitive impairment. Out of these people, it is not uncommon for many to at some point seek meditation as a possible solution to one's problems. I am one of those people.
Many "normal" people (also known as "the worried well") whom you might see in a place of meditation, have sought meditation initially because they had problems. Those who may have difficulty surviving in our environment (which greatly reinforces greed, fear, and clinging) are often inclined toward an existence of more peace. Meanwhile others (people who don't see the purpose of meditation) may be less sensitive, do not have a problem with our fast-paced, dualistic society, and are not interested in things that to them don't seem to give them anything.
The predicament of living with a psychiatric disorder furnishes multiple opportunities for using hardship as a catalyst for me to better myself. People with mental illness are forced to live under multiple hardships.
For one thing, being medicated, sometimes voluntarily or sometimes by force, is not enviable--the side effects can create a great deal of suffering.
Living as a second class citizen is something with which many persons with mental illness are familiar. We often get bumped to a lower social status because people often perceive us as dumb. When someone with mental illness does show intelligence, it gets marginalized. When we get treated this way, it can be a source of anguish. We are discriminated against in employment situations. People to whom we might be attracted often wouldn't consider a relationship, because we are perceived as not good enough. We are often forced, by circumstances we can't control, to live on a low income. Some physicians assign less importance to our physical health, because we are perceived as less valuable. There are numerous other hardships that come in the package of mental illness--I don't have the space here to list all of them.
The power to meditate and to have some control over emotional pain is tremendously helpful for someone living with the specter of mental illness.
I first became acutely mentally ill in 1982, and it was a situation of much despair, fear, and trauma--not only for me but also for those who had to deal with me. When I was finally stabilized and released, the idea of meditation to make my mind better was a great source of hope--and this, along with a caring family, sustained me through a very difficult period of my life.
I read books by Thich Nhat Hanh, D.T. Suzuki, Ram Dass, and other teachers. I absorbed the basic gist of Buddhist concepts, such as eliminating attachments, creating a peaceful, compassionate and ethical existence, and focusing on what is happening in the moment. However, I have never been an ideal student.
I ultimately decided I am better off practicing meditation independently rather than in a group setting. The social aspects of being involved in a meditation group seemed to detract from my practices. I would rather meditate on my own and not at the same time deal with personality dynamics and social awkwardness.
I have been able to use mindfulness to greatly improve the quality of my life. The mindfulness practices that I do are not directed by a master, and in fact, I am not practicing Zen.
The late Ken Keyes Jr. was a meditation practitioner who also pioneered his own set of techniques. I have studied several of his books. However, the methods he taught were not very usable for me. Still, the basic ideas, which are essentially Buddhist, have been an inspiration of the methods that I have put together for myself.
What I do does not involve sitting cross-legged. I do not chant, I do not usually follow the breath, and in fact, I do not sit with my spine straight. However, I do sit and focus. I deliberately focus on internal stimuli, and I make changes to internal "events."
As a man with a psychotic disorder who also takes psychiatric medication, physical and emotional suffering is a daily, even hourly condition. Medication side effects induce physical suffering. And the illness, imperfectly treated by medication, generates negative and sometimes paranoid and delusional thoughts. These thoughts can lead to emotional distress. I also suffer from an anxiety disorder that requires me to sometimes take anti-anxiety medication.
Meditation of the type that I do can help lessen some of my symptoms of mental illness which include psychotic and delusional thoughts and a combination of anxiety and depression. Questioning the output of the mind is useful, whether I am looking at spurious thinking, or runaway painful emotions.
Meditation, mindfulness, and being a determined meditation practitioner, are not necessarily enough to cure or resolve mental illness. Meditation and mindfulness mostly deal with the mind's "software" while mental illnesses are often a "hardware" issue. I am sure there is some overlap between the content of the mind and the structure of the brain. Thus some people other than me could hypothetically fix some psychiatric conditions through meditation, such as a not exceedingly severe case of depression.
However, in my situation, I am using meditation to cope with the suffering directly induced by my illness, the suffering caused by medication side-effects, and the suffering of being in a poor position in society due to being in an unrecognized minority.
In the mindfulness I practice, the first step that I normally take is to remember to create a distinction between external facts versus internal emotions and perceptions. If I make a separation between realities that need be dealt with and suffering that exists at the same time, then I can use mindfulness to deal with the suffering, and I can still take action as needed to deal with a life situation. Mindfulness should not be used to ignore life realities that must be dealt with.
The second step I take is to make an internal map of the emotional and physical pain and discomfort. Part of this discomfort is physical pain that the body uses to reinforce a negative emotion. Part of the suffering is a thought or a perception that says something is "wrong" or "bad" or says that "I am being hurt." The physical pain and the accompanying thought are the first two things that I map.
The third step I use is to locate where in my consciousness I believe the pain is bad. And finally, I change this perception and I decide the pain I feel isn't good or bad. When this is done, I experience a release of pain, and I may experience immunity to suffering that lasts anywhere from a half hour to several hours.
It is nice to have a bag of tricks that can alleviate my suffering on a fairly consistent basis--usually without the need to take a bunch of drugs to avoid legitimate pain. Sometimes what I'm up to isn't about avoiding suffering at all. Sometimes it is about being brave enough to feel emotions in the moment.
Meditation helps me live a much better existence under the predicament of having a mental illness. Psychiatric illness can dominate and in some cases ruin a person's life. Persons with mental illness like me must deal with a lot of adversity. For one thing, persons with psychiatric disabilities are an unrecognized minority. We are ostracized in society and are the object of people's jokes.
For me, meditation and also writing have been two "great equalizers" which have furnished hope, helped my path and improved my conditions.
BY JACK BRAGEN
Adults with psychiatric illnesses sometimes seek spiritual teachings in the hope of understanding the cause of our problems and possibly solving those problems. Those whose illnesses are less severe are more likely to seek solutions through Buddhist-style mindfulness because they are not too impaired to try that. Those whose illness is more severe or whose intellect is compromised by the illness may never think that they could try meditation, much less study techniques.
Many people who suffer from a mental illness at those times when in treatment or remission do not have a cognitive impairment. Out of these people, it is not uncommon for many to at some point seek meditation as a possible solution to one's problems. I am one of those people.
Many "normal" people (also known as "the worried well") whom you might see in a place of meditation, have sought meditation initially because they had problems. Those who may have difficulty surviving in our environment (which greatly reinforces greed, fear, and clinging) are often inclined toward an existence of more peace. Meanwhile others (people who don't see the purpose of meditation) may be less sensitive, do not have a problem with our fast-paced, dualistic society, and are not interested in things that to them don't seem to give them anything.
The predicament of living with a psychiatric disorder furnishes multiple opportunities for using hardship as a catalyst for me to better myself. People with mental illness are forced to live under multiple hardships.
For one thing, being medicated, sometimes voluntarily or sometimes by force, is not enviable--the side effects can create a great deal of suffering.
Living as a second class citizen is something with which many persons with mental illness are familiar. We often get bumped to a lower social status because people often perceive us as dumb. When someone with mental illness does show intelligence, it gets marginalized. When we get treated this way, it can be a source of anguish. We are discriminated against in employment situations. People to whom we might be attracted often wouldn't consider a relationship, because we are perceived as not good enough. We are often forced, by circumstances we can't control, to live on a low income. Some physicians assign less importance to our physical health, because we are perceived as less valuable. There are numerous other hardships that come in the package of mental illness--I don't have the space here to list all of them.
The power to meditate and to have some control over emotional pain is tremendously helpful for someone living with the specter of mental illness.
I first became acutely mentally ill in 1982, and it was a situation of much despair, fear, and trauma--not only for me but also for those who had to deal with me. When I was finally stabilized and released, the idea of meditation to make my mind better was a great source of hope--and this, along with a caring family, sustained me through a very difficult period of my life.
I read books by Thich Nhat Hanh, D.T. Suzuki, Ram Dass, and other teachers. I absorbed the basic gist of Buddhist concepts, such as eliminating attachments, creating a peaceful, compassionate and ethical existence, and focusing on what is happening in the moment. However, I have never been an ideal student.
I ultimately decided I am better off practicing meditation independently rather than in a group setting. The social aspects of being involved in a meditation group seemed to detract from my practices. I would rather meditate on my own and not at the same time deal with personality dynamics and social awkwardness.
I have been able to use mindfulness to greatly improve the quality of my life. The mindfulness practices that I do are not directed by a master, and in fact, I am not practicing Zen.
The late Ken Keyes Jr. was a meditation practitioner who also pioneered his own set of techniques. I have studied several of his books. However, the methods he taught were not very usable for me. Still, the basic ideas, which are essentially Buddhist, have been an inspiration of the methods that I have put together for myself.
What I do does not involve sitting cross-legged. I do not chant, I do not usually follow the breath, and in fact, I do not sit with my spine straight. However, I do sit and focus. I deliberately focus on internal stimuli, and I make changes to internal "events."
As a man with a psychotic disorder who also takes psychiatric medication, physical and emotional suffering is a daily, even hourly condition. Medication side effects induce physical suffering. And the illness, imperfectly treated by medication, generates negative and sometimes paranoid and delusional thoughts. These thoughts can lead to emotional distress. I also suffer from an anxiety disorder that requires me to sometimes take anti-anxiety medication.
Meditation of the type that I do can help lessen some of my symptoms of mental illness which include psychotic and delusional thoughts and a combination of anxiety and depression. Questioning the output of the mind is useful, whether I am looking at spurious thinking, or runaway painful emotions.
Meditation, mindfulness, and being a determined meditation practitioner, are not necessarily enough to cure or resolve mental illness. Meditation and mindfulness mostly deal with the mind's "software" while mental illnesses are often a "hardware" issue. I am sure there is some overlap between the content of the mind and the structure of the brain. Thus some people other than me could hypothetically fix some psychiatric conditions through meditation, such as a not exceedingly severe case of depression.
However, in my situation, I am using meditation to cope with the suffering directly induced by my illness, the suffering caused by medication side-effects, and the suffering of being in a poor position in society due to being in an unrecognized minority.
In the mindfulness I practice, the first step that I normally take is to remember to create a distinction between external facts versus internal emotions and perceptions. If I make a separation between realities that need be dealt with and suffering that exists at the same time, then I can use mindfulness to deal with the suffering, and I can still take action as needed to deal with a life situation. Mindfulness should not be used to ignore life realities that must be dealt with.
The second step I take is to make an internal map of the emotional and physical pain and discomfort. Part of this discomfort is physical pain that the body uses to reinforce a negative emotion. Part of the suffering is a thought or a perception that says something is "wrong" or "bad" or says that "I am being hurt." The physical pain and the accompanying thought are the first two things that I map.
The third step I use is to locate where in my consciousness I believe the pain is bad. And finally, I change this perception and I decide the pain I feel isn't good or bad. When this is done, I experience a release of pain, and I may experience immunity to suffering that lasts anywhere from a half hour to several hours.
It is nice to have a bag of tricks that can alleviate my suffering on a fairly consistent basis--usually without the need to take a bunch of drugs to avoid legitimate pain. Sometimes what I'm up to isn't about avoiding suffering at all. Sometimes it is about being brave enough to feel emotions in the moment.
Meditation helps me live a much better existence under the predicament of having a mental illness. Psychiatric illness can dominate and in some cases ruin a person's life. Persons with mental illness like me must deal with a lot of adversity. For one thing, persons with psychiatric disabilities are an unrecognized minority. We are ostracized in society and are the object of people's jokes.
For me, meditation and also writing have been two "great equalizers" which have furnished hope, helped my path and improved my conditions.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
