'THE WIZARD THAT WAS': A LITTLE GROWING STORY Updated 26/5/2014

(Ctr - end) Will take you to the last update. 
This is another growing story when I have time. The writing is not perfect, it is spontaneous and will be tidied up over time. This is a sort of magical mysterious story, that could end up anywhere. There are no drafts, no synopsis or any previous thought. See how it goes.

THE WIZARD THAT WAS

#By Frances Harris

In a homeless shelter in a normal metropolitan city, is number five Greenway Street, where a group of fringe dwellers seem to live happily in their own alternate universe to the rest of humanity. Most of them have few material possessions, but they do have a lot to offer each other.

'Where do you come from?' Dorothy asked a frail little man with a mildly hunched back, slurping on a bowl of onion soup. The man ignores her and continues with his meal. 'Cat got your tongue?' Dorothy asks, but still he ignores her. She begins to laugh and point a nimble finger his way and says: 'Can't you talk little man?' For one fleeting moment he raises his eyes to look at her, not stopping the steady movement of his spoon. 'You're not worth worrying about,' Dorothy says scornfully; then she stands up suddenly, her huge frame nearly taking the table with her.

The soup bowl tips up slightly, sloshing soup on the man's shirt. He looks startled for a moment, then straightens his well-worn collar and hungrily finishes his meal. A teenage youth takes pity on the older man and goes over to him. 'Are you alright?' he asks. 'Yep!' the man with the soup replies. My name is Pete Symonds, he says while offering his hand. The man with the empty bowl offers his hand in return, over a lowered head.

Pete is a little startled as he didn't really expect a reply. 'I'm Robin Hood,' the hunched up man replies. Pete appears a little puzzled, though he gives a slightly knowing grin. 'OK, Mr Robin Hood, it's nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your meal.' While scooping dollops of yellow coconut flavoured custard into his mouth, Mr Robin Hood pauses and leans back. 'Take from the rich and give to the poor,' he says earnestly, then resumes his scooping. Pete has seen a lot in his young years, and accepts that many unusual folk come here to this shelter that his parents set up years ago. Those people have little chance to take care of themselves with the few possessions they carry with them. Pete had grown up around them.

Parked beside Mr Robin hood is a grocery trolley possibly purloined from a local shop. It is brimming to the top with many of the essentials necessary to live on the street. With a look of mischievous glee on her rounded face, Dorothy passes by again and swoops on something hanging from the trolley. Immediately Mr Hood reaches out and grabs her arm and twists it. Dorothy squeals with pain. 'It's mine,' he protests loudly. ‘You have no right to it!’ She had clearly underestimated his strength. Anxious people at the other tables momentarily look up from their food and conversations, and they murmur their disapproval. This shelter is usually a quiet place. Another man in a blue and white striped vest from the 1960’s watches intently from afar. He races over to Mr Robin hood and whispers something in his ear, then exits at the nearest door. Mr Robin Hood does not react in any way. Dorothy immediately follows him outside.

Then Mr Robin Hood calls out loudly to both of them; ‘you’ll pay for what you’ve done, you’ll pay dearly!’ The other patrons huddle lower at their tables and pretend that nothing happened. Quiet returns to the building and life goes on at the shelter as usual. There had been rumours about Mr Robin hood, but they were too far-fetched for most people to believe. The sources for these rumours were very unreliable. It still made that everyone feel very uneasy. They didn’t like to talk about such things. When he’d finished every morsel, Mr Robin Hood wiped his mouth with the white napkin provided, then proceeded to rearrange the contents of his shopping trolley. He tucked in each corner of the green waterproof cover, did one last check that everything was secured, before he went out the door pushing the trolley with the slightly wobbly wheel down the street.

Pete wiped his eyes and stared as he could swear he saw something wriggle under the trolley cover. ‘Please get me another coffee,’ he asks the man behind the counter. ’I really need one! He takes two sips of the pungent brew; then he asks the attendant: ‘did you see something strange about that trolley?’ The man gives Pete a curious glance. ‘Never mind, I think I need an early night, I’ve been pushing myself too hard lately.’

(Updated 26/5/2014)

Along the narrow Green Street, outside the shelter, Mr Robin Hood ambled into the distance looking into shop windows as his journey progressed. Rubbish dumpsters were of great interest to him. Sometimes he stopped occasionally to look down narrow alleys on his way to somewhere. This man was of no particular interest to anyone, so no one noticed or cared where he went each day.

Next day Pete was so interested in the man with the grocery trolley, he asked around to find out if anyone knows him. He headed for a group of gossipers who frequented the shelter daily, because if anyone would know, they were the most likely. He was surprised when he met a wall of silence with everyone he approached. ’What is it about that guy?’ he murmured. 'I get this creepy feeling when I think about him,' he thought.

Next day at the evening meal as regular as clockwork, first the loaded trolley came through the front door of the shelter followed by the man called Mr Robin Hood. He showed little emotion as he took his usual seat, at his usual table close to the middle of the room. He can’t be a shrinking violet if he likes to sit out in the open, thought Pete. They both acknowledged each other with a fleeting glance, not wanting to be too obvious. Pete watched his every move. He noticed the people who he spoke to and those he avoided. Mostly he seemed to be a loner.

Mr Robin Hood stood in the food line and collected his usual meal of meat, three vegetables and a small date pudding. Most times he ate only half his peas and left the rest, putting them in a small plastic box. Not that it really meant a whole lot. What Pete did notice was whenever Mr Robin Hood entered the room, the steady hum of vibrant conversation turned to soft whispers behind hands to the face. The quiet all around was unnerving. Pete kept a careful eye on the shopping trolley but this time he noticed nothing unusual.

Life is hard on the street, so Pete and his brother Scott, who also helped out there, liked to find little ways to help those in need. Scott went over to the notice board and placed a bulletin declaring there are free clothes ready for collection in the back room. A few of the patrons strolled over take a look. Nobody seemed interested, except Mr Robin Hood. Pete took a keen interest in what he chose. The man turned over the pile of second hand clothes many times before he chose a heavy grey coat, a pair of red and blue striped socks and child size pair of pyjamas.

Pete noted the strange choice for someone who was unlikely to have a child in his care. This was suspicious, surely. A thin, sickly old woman also searching for clothes noticed what he chose and stared at him for a moment. Then she reverted to the accepted policy in the shelter which is to keep out of other people’s business. Pete’s curiosity was now almost overwhelming. ‘Children’s pyjamas?’ he mumbled. All kinds of possibilities were swirling through his mind. Pete called Scott over to tell him of his fears. ‘Do you think it is strange that Mr Robin Hood took a pair of children’s pyjamas out of the clothes pile?’ Scott is a lay-back kind of guy and asked: ’What are you worried about?’ His brother’s voice wavered when he said: ’I don’t know.’ Scott looked at Pete strangely, then he started to walk off. ‘No really Scott,’ he added: ’I think it’s fishy.’

‘You’ve got rocks in your head, there are lots of reasons why he would choose children’s clothes. He might have a grandchild.’ Pete hung his head wondering about his own stability. ‘Take the afternoon off, I’ll cover your shift ‘Bro,’ Scott adds from the other side of the room. It was time for Mr Robin Hood to go on his way. Once again, he followed his usual routine, before strolling out the door. Pete could not resist the opportunity; he strode to the front door and watched intently as Mr Robin Hood disappeared into the city.

LET'S TALK ABOUT PSYCHIATRY.

Let’s Talk about Psychiatry

Somebody needs to speak up for those who can't.

By Frances Harris

To begin with, to be fair to psychiatry, I would welcome input from psychiatrists who have met with better outcomes than those in this story. So far I haven't found many.

Some patients do make it through the mental health system in better shape than they started out, but (after sixteen years as a committed advocate) and from feedback and experience inside treating and supporting organisations, my optimism faded long ago. It is clear that when a person develops a mental illness, they instantly become - a remnant of humanity by default in mainstream medicine.  

It may come as a surprise to some practitioners that these people feel pain when they are hurt, they cry real tears just like the rest of us when they are in despair, and they are still loved by their families just the same as they have ever been. And yes! - It is easier to 'pull the wool over their eyes,' because they have a greater need to trust others than we do. My experience as an advocate in the Frankston Mental Health system has continuously been a shock and a real 'eye opener.' It seems that the mentally ill are dispensable, they can be duped, they can be legally harassed and if a few of them die or are harmed in the process, it seems so be it. But when you look a frightened parent in the eyes, as I have done and they tell you in a quivering voice, asking quietly - why is my son forced to have these dangerous injections, when there are life threatening side effects that can't be stopped? - It is an experience that will stay with me for a lifetime. It seems in Australia the Disability Standards don't apply to the mentally ill. 

When I recall, my whole being freezes with disgust and anger, because I know there are better more humane ways to treat these people. My own son is going through the same process, and the cruelty and contempt from treating psychiatrists is breathtaking. It is hard to say, but from my observations it seems some of the doctors, and some nurses have become so hardened they may even thrive on the suffering of others. These people, who luckily are in the minority, have the greatest capacity to do irreparable damage. They seem to have lost contact with their own humanity, and in my humble opinion, should be screened out. Clinical files are seen to be incomplete where there has been an adverse event and reports are often distorted and flawed. They operate without scrutiny because few people exactly know what they do, and cant readily find out. - Well, today I am challenging them.

When I tried to complain about Edward's treatment to the ward hierarchy at Frankston hospital mental health ward, I quickly found moves were made to get me out of the way with a 'mental health intervention.' That means they wanted to drag me in to be assessed by their psychiatrists and get me on pills. But luckily I have an impeccable, provable mental health record. It didn't succeed, and the guy who insisted I see their team of psychiatrists will never forget my response in a while.

The majority of the mentally ill are in no position to advocate on their own behalf, and they probably never will. They are easy targets for drug trials. That is another issue that should be raised - who is running the hospital? Is it the administration or is it the influence of drug companies calling the shots. I seriously wonder.

Most people or their relative will touch bases with a psychiatrist at some time in their life. Often they will unexpectedly and urgently need help, but from experiences with my son Edward, I advise those people to look carefully before you leap into the world of psychiatry and the push for psychotropic drugs. The assistance of a neurologist and a General Practitioner could sometimes be all you need. If you or a relative are involved in illicit or overused prescribed medications then I suggest you should read this message and its updates. The story will make you feel uncomfortable, perhaps make you cringe and possibly scare you, but it’s out there and won’t go away even if you shut down your computer for now.

The mental health system is like a quicksand bog that once in it a person rarely ever escapes its influence. Medication doses are usually on the incline and rarely, if ever do they come down.Containment of patients in this wide net is something sanctioned by law. They are easy pickings for experimentation of certain medications. To add to the morass, unfortunately there seems to be significant by-catch in that net, with misdiagnosis and the like. So does anyone wonder why the mentally ill run for their lives not wanting to come back, or go under trains, self harm or overdose? The mental health system has made their lives hell! From my vantage point, this is legalized torture. I see them broken, I see their pain. It's not hard to recognize the despair these people feel as they see their bodies tremor and maybe an arm doesn't work like it used to, then an ugly facial twitch has eventuated for a lifetime after the treatment. They can't think straight any more like they used to. Would anyone cope with that?

Imagine, you are put in a place where you are under such duress to accept injections that make you gasp for breath, sometimes collapse on the floor and for periods of time you are cut off from your loved ones and feel totally....totally alone. You hear your previously healthy organs may be failing. It would break anyone, let alone the already vulnerable. And as for the families who watch on helplessly, their distress levels escalate to life threatening proportions. How can they hope to cope when their loved one comes home. They are already too distressed to carry out a normal life. Unless you are the patient's advocate the hospital can exclude you, so anything can happen and you have no say. 

This is sanctioned cruelty, bringing to mind the words 'cruel and unusual punishment,' forbidden under the United Nations charter. 

Yes, cruel, stressful and confusing to families and patients. And, one must realize when behind locked doors, the psychiatrist is always right, or there can be consequences when your loved one is treated at the whim of that psychiatrist and the associates. They stick together and have long memories. Often that treating psychiatrist neither knows the patient, nor cares, knows little about allergy status nor special needs, nor barely reads the clinical file. and there is no other option offered.

At the beginning of a mental health event, the patient's diagnosis is often at the whim of the first psychiatrist encountered. Right or wrong that diagnosis is broadcast to the mental health system, and the Road Traffic Authority for life, and stays that way even if it is revised later. There is no exit from that treatment or diagnosis, whether reasonably or not, without the risk of having the driving licence suspended. On entering a hospital the patient will likely be forever treated according to the first diagnosis, even when a later preferred psychiatrist sees it differently.

In my son Edward’s case, when he enters the doors of Frankston hospital he must conform to the treatment of the first diagnosis, and when he walks outside the doors he reverts to the treatment of the second diagnosis. It has a real, 'Alice in Wonderland,' feel about it.

If a patient is not happy with the treatment of the treating psychiatrist and departs, then chooses another health professional, the initial psychiatrist has been known to send out an alert to all health facilities on a whim, that the patient is – non compliant with his medication, even though that psychiatrist is no longer the treating doctor. Health officials will respond. Non compliance can be reported without evidence from blood tests or interviews with friends and relatives, and even if the patient is on another prescribed medication at the time. There is no way to revoke that alert once it goes out.

Sanctioned treatment inflicted on mental health patients would by law, bring on a significant jail sentence if inflicted on an animal. The facts are that this system is so secretive that few interested people ever find out. The treatments effects are neatly kept under the radar, and queries are discouraged and deflected. Don't waste your time making a formal complaint to the hospital; they've got that well sewn up too.

Edward has been involved in the Frankston (Hospital) Mental Health System, Victoria, Australia; one of the country’s biggest mental health treatment centers, after many unhelpful years in the private sector.

It’s now time to open up to scrutiny a few of the darkest spaces residing in the mental health system in Astralia. I acknowledge the mental health service is only as good as funding from governments and the quality of its hired staff. Many want to do better, but are hampered by resources, while others don’t care what happens and duck for cover when questions are asked. The lives of the mentally ill are of no concern to them. The mental health service is secretive and protected, and anyone trying to get information is usually frustrated.

And essentially, for the unaware, there must be strong advocacy to ensure survival of you or your loved one.

Then in the background looms undeclared inducements offered by drug companies to psychiatrist, and clinics that can heavily influence the patient’s treatment. The truth is; a psychiatrist has, ‘next to no idea,’ what psychotropic medicines do to the human body. If there is hypersensitivity, or a slow absorption rate, chances are the life of that person will be at risk, because the system is geared to; ‘one size fits all.’  And mark my words, - few people care, least of all politicians, unless we make them. Rarely are blood tests done to check drug tolerances, screen for allergy, heart problems, or given blood tests for medication levels, serum levels to protect vital organs. Is it any wonder that the median lifespan of the mentally ill is fifty years. Unless the advocate brings these things to the attention of the treating psychiatrist, they are rarely addressed.

Some drugs don’t show up in a toxicity test. There are injections that have no antidote if something goes wrong, and these have a history of patients who periodically drop dead for no recognizable reason. The producing drug company has a vested interest in recommending the maximum dose for maximum profit. It is shown on the directions within the packaging.

We have tried the private system, the public system and – then successfully opted out of both after injury, such as coma, to successfully take the advice of our general practitioner. Then Edward was dragged back in to be put on a Community Treatment Order. When practitioners are asked for a reason, they can't exactly say why that is. 

I’m sure there are many fine, highly skilled, caring psychiatrists out there, but to date I have never met one in sixteen years, or heard of one, or been recommended to one by a wise professional. Three years ago when I asked staff in the Frankston hospital system and the Frankston clinic, ‘where can I find a good psychiatrist?’ I was told by those who know - 'there are none!'  Now, I hear since then there are three  more acceptable psychiatrists within driving distance down the peninsula, but it's like looking for a needle in a haystack..

The first real surprise  that came forward about psychiatrists is something that left me wondering. I always thought they would have undergone extensive years of training in say, toxicology, immunology, psychology, brain diagnostics, structure etc. ……… so maybe, highly skilled like a heart surgeon? The truth is; a psychiatrist is a General Practitioner who has been given - on the job training in a psychiatric facility, while doing some general study, then within two years – joins the field as a qualified psychiatrist. I think a chiropractor does more years of training.

So the difference between mainstream medicine and psychiatry is that doctors try to make every effort to save the patient when in danger. But the life of the patient with a mental illness who has potentially life threatening symptoms, the psychiatrist will remain fixated on suppressing breakthrough symptoms at any cost., even if treatment may end a life. Edward faced a life threatening condition that was dismissed by a psychiatrist at the hospital when diagnostic evidence was available. Luckily a second hospital picked it up.

Edward was diagnosed with a potential life-threatening heart condition at the second hospital, and I was told by a staff member on behalf of the Frankston clinic psychiatrist – ‘You are the only one who is worried about it!’ Now, I too have a similar condition, and when revealed to the hospital, all resources were employed to care for me. You can probably guess what I am thinking.

Is it any wonder that many with mental illness die slowly from the effects of anxiety and poor decision making, and there are others who leave the hospital so distressed from treatment and incarceration at Frankston Hospital they go straight to the train lines to take their own life, or jump from a high bridge, or overdose on anything that will numb the trauma of treatment followed by a bad life. The human costs of treatments versus the benefits are way out of proportion. Chances are the patient will need additional trauma treatment after discharge from hospital; - but that is unlikely to happen.

I will progressively roll out some more of the uneasy truths about psychiatry and mental health over time, and the never ending hamster wheel of prescribed drugs, perpetual medication, poor outcomes, and tragic lives. 

I have to ask myself; Is anyone out there in charge right now? I'm still looking for the evidence

Have a good week.

OUR HEROES

 

OUR HEROES

#By Frances Harris

I am a very conservative, passionate person. This may not make sense, perhaps this is the ultimate oxymoron, but that’s who I am. Every now and then I see an injustice that worries me to the point I have to do something. I am persistent, and if people think I am out of line, so be it.

Our Aussie troops and I speak for our allies too, are coming home from Afghanistan and as they put their feet on home soil, they are feeling the sting of what it really means to be home. For some, the surreal experience is so harsh they are beginning to ask, do I still belong here, and does anybody care what I’ve been through?

Well, I care, I care a lot! Australians don’t like to make a fuss, and sometimes it takes a small incendiary to wake us up. It is easy to say; well our heroes should have known what they were getting themselves in to when they joined the armed forces as a career move. So who was going to tell them? If that was the case, we as a country would not have anyone to protect us!

In the USA, the problem is highlighted by their good citizens who are banning together to do something practical about their discouraged veterans. A fund is growing to build a shelter to help them. Their messages are planted on facebook, and anywhere on social media a message can be inserted. They support their troops with united enthusiasm. But still, In the USA something like 22 ex -service members a day will find no more reason to live, so they take the ultimate step. This promises to be a greater loss than the total numbers sacrificed in battle. Just imagine, 2,200 more fallen unnecessarily in ten months, gone before their time.

Our young heroes are committing suicide in Australia in worrying numbers, and as I know we as a people care if we hear about it, but we are so slow to react!  Our heroes are putting everything on the line for us, including the things that they love and value – and all for their country, Australia. When they return, with their new perspective, some feel there is no place left for them to belong in their country. Is it not too much for us to give them some encouragement or to do something practical to help them? Can’t we let them know that if they hang on, with a little help everything can all eventually level out?

Most of all they need to know the citizens of Australia care. Is it not too much to distract the government from the National Broadband Network, or the Gonsky Education Plan for a moment to pay attention to this far greater emergency? Can’t we entice the Mainstream Media to pause for a moment from football, the Tour De France and the drug taking scandals and the like to focus on the things that really matter? I search, but rarely do I see a by-line on the subject.

It’s true we have the ANZAC march once a year, but the focus is mostly on the ANZAC veterans from the two world wars.  I hate to quote parallels with the Vietnam War, but the evidence is growing. The RSL seems to be a declining force now. Bruce Ruxton has gone after being a brilliant champion for the troops, so I look for someone else to pick up the baton. Many questions are obvious, but there are few answers. We need a hero to step into his shoes, but none has come forward so far. We Australians can even contact a politician to say that the fate of our troops matters to us.

Recently there was a young soldier living in Casino, New South Wales who took his life. He was a normal soldier who was faced with abnormal memories to deal with. He could even be a distant relative of mine. I realised then, military families and their friends are suffering in silence without the notice of the country and shouldn’t be. I call on all Australians to tell our military heroes we recognise their work on our behalf, and they are truly appreciated.  Hopefully for them, help is on the way.



DAMAGED BODIES, SHATTERED MINDS, BROKEN HEARTS

DAMAGED BODIES, SHATTERED MINDS, BROKEN HEARTS

By Frances Harris

  

I have reposted this article as I find that currently the Department of Veterans Affairs is not treating our Veterans in Australia with due respect or allowing them the care they deserve within reasonable time limits. This is coming from the grass roots. In addition to my previous post below, the latest is: There are return soldiers who have left the armed forces with a recorded diagnosis of Post -Traumatic Stress Disorder, and in their most fragile condition, have to jump through hoops to reprove it to DVA.

In the meantime it is this government department with its foot dragging that could be the last straw for our struggling heroes. These people are hurting now, they can’t wait for the paper to be shuffled, and the coffee cups to be washed and dried. I also heard it is not uncommon to grant a veteran in these circumstances a pension about near-equal to New Start Allowance which is barely enough to survive on. Poverty is not the burden our veterans should to be carrying while they try to recover from the trauma of war. They have given their all, and we have given them no more than a pittance and a thank you.

Previous Post:

This is about men and women in uniform who willingly go to war to defend their country, and who come home to experience shattered lives, faltering relationships, divorce, mental health issues and perhaps unwanted alienation from the own family. This is also about the shabby way they are treated by governments after sometimes sacrificing everything for the cause.

On their return home, sometimes comes the torturous realization that they may not be ableto reclaim their previous sense of dignity, peace of mind, or have certainty about any foreseeable, reliable or viable future. While still dealing with physical and psychological injuries of war, they may find slowly they are being reinjured by the pressure of their civilian circumstances.

 

Sometimes, when our veterans are feeling marginalized, and ground down by the heavy expectations of normal society, it is not surprising to find that anger and dysfunction become their regular companions. Homelessness, depression, mental illness and even jail are predictable symptoms of this desperation. And worst of all, when feeling totally alone, with no trusted place to turn, suicide can seem an acceptable option. It happened after Vietnam, and it’s happening now!

Real treatment and care is often given lip service by authorities, sometimes rocketing into the headlines for a day or two, only to fizzle out shortly after. Whenever a military person succumbs to suicide, I feel gutted and wonder- why didn't anyone care enough to see it coming? Talk of safety nets and adequate care regimes is not good enough! In the absence of viable and consistent social and mental health facilities, it is a damning indictment on governments that in order to stay alive, many of our war heroes would be better off in jail.

Psychotropic types are dangerous drugs. With high doses to keep the patient docile, rational thinking is compromised and blunted, so deviant thinking and behavioural problems can become a greater reality. Would anyone be surprised when there is uninhibited violence and antisocial behaviour? We shouldn't blame the victim. I have seen it firsthand. They need more than pills.

Surely it is unreasonable to expect inexperienced families to fully take care of veterans’ needs. Governments only scratch the surface of real care and are reluctant to invest. The act of returning home, either voluntary or enforced, can be more traumatising than battle for the legions of our returning military personnel.

All that any returning service person would ask if feeling a little lost, - could some kind person show me the way home? Sadly many of them never make it and are lost forever.