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There is more going on between the bedcovers
than there is between the book covers.
Schizophrenics are just like everybody else,
only more so.
If the diagnosis escapes you,
the patient is paranoid.
One small step for me,
too big for mankind.
Once upon a time a little while from now, in a strange land much like our own, there lived a doctor. He was from the Old School and was a physician--that is, a man of nature through and through. He was thoroughly familiar with the dis-eases of his time and place. He liked to prescribe home-remedies, changes in lifestyle, simple precautions, or no treatment whatever for his patients. The doctor understood people and wanted to help them find their own way to health. He hated powerful medicines which forced people into an artificial state that the National Experts defined as "healthy."
As a result of his attitude, the doctor had very few patients. For the people in his community had been educated into surrendering their health care to the National Experts and their trainees. The people sought powerful medicines because they had been taught all their lives that, "The quick and routine cure is the best cure." And the powerful medicines gave quick, predictable results even though the patients didn't feel good during or after the treatment.
The doctor was reading in his office one day when a man walked in. The man was somewhat bruised and his clothes were torn in places.
"What happened to you?" asked the doctor.
"I was crossing the street and got hit by this big, red object. It had flashing red lights and it made a loud, roaring noise. It also had big, black tires and it made another noise like a siren or something."
"I think you were hit by a red fire truck," said the doctor. The doctor elicited the necessary background information from the patient and performed a complete physical examination.
"Will I need laboratory tests?" asked the patient.
"No," the doctor said, "it looks like you were hit by a red fire truck. You should heal up O.K. without treatment. I suggest you be careful crossing streets."
"I'm sorry I can't agree with your diagnosis, Doctor," the patient answered. "I believe I am suffering from President's Disease and I need a powerful medicine for that."
"I must refuse to prescribe medicines in your case," the doctor said quietly.
Without another word, the patient turned on his heel and walked out.
Several days later, the same man walked into the doctor's office again. The man had fresh bruises and nicks. His clothes were in a ruin.
"You're back," said the doctor. "What happened this time?"
"Well, it was just like last time," said the patient, "but this time I noticed more detail. I was hit by the big, red thing all right. It had a clanging silver bell and the initials 'F.D.' painted on the side in gold letters. The word 'Mack' was written on the front. Whatever the thing was, it made a hell of a roar."
Again the doctor examined the patient carefully and got a little more background information.
"Will I need x-rays?" asked the patient.
"No," said the doctor. "You will heal fine in a few days. I advise you to stop, look and listen before you cross the street. You were hit by a red fire truck."
"I'm sorry I can't agree with you," the patient said. "I think I have Smog Syndrome and I need powerful medicine for it."
"I regret I cannot go along with you on that," the doctor replied. And the patient left abruptly as he had before.
About two weeks later the same man walked into the doctor's office. Again the patient had fresh bruises and scrapes. His clothes were tattered.
"It's you again," said the doctor. "I suppose you got hit by the big, red thing again."
"Yes, and it was just like the first two times. And this time I noticed even more. The big, red thing carried hoses and axes. There were hose connections and pressure gauges on the side. The driver's seat was open like a convertible. The siren was deafening. Look at the tire tracks on my coat. It's a good thing I wasn't wearing it at the time."
Once again, the doctor examined the patient thoroughly. "You are healthy and should heal in a few days," concluded he doctor. "You were hit by a red fire truck. Since you seem prone to being hit by red fire trucks, I recommend that you watch out for them especially."
"Will I need to go to the hospital?" the patient queried.
"No," said the doctor, "just stay away from red fire trucks and you'll be fine."
"I'm disappointed with your skill in diagnosis, Doctor," the patient said. "I think I have Underconsumptive Deficiency and I need powerful medicine, maybe megavitamins, for that."
"No way," said the doctor and the patient stormed out of the office.
About a month later, the same man entered the doctor's office. He had new bruises and abrasions. His clothes were torn and frayed.
"Incredible!" cried the doctor. "I thought you'd never come back. I bet the very same thing happened to you."
"Yes," answered the patient, "just like the other three times. This time I noticed that the big, red thing was being driven by a man in a rubber raincoat. He had on a funny hat with a point on the top and a shelf-like thing in the back. In fact, there were five or six men in raincoats and funny hats riding the red thing. It also carried long ladders and had a second driver in the back with his own steering wheel and windshield."
Once more the doctor examined the man thoroughly and said, "You were most certainly hit by a red fire truck but you will recover as you have in the past. I strongly advise that you ask for help in crossing the street or stay out of the street altogether."
"Will I need to go to the National Experts Medical Organization clinic for complete diagnosis and treatment?" asked the patient. "You've heard of the NEMO clinic, I presume?"
"I'm quite familiar with the NEMO clinic and there is no need for you to go there."
"I disagree with you, Doctor. I think I have Rustic Neurosis and I need powerful medicine for that."
"You don't have Rustic Neurosis and you don't need any medicine either."
"Well, how about something for the pain then?"
"I could prescribe some medicine for your pain," the doctor said, "but I think you need your pain to remind you to stay away from red fire trucks. Anyway, your pain will go away by itself in a few days."
The man said no more and walked out in a huff. The doctor shook his head sadly and returned to his reading. The patient never came back. And the doctor was never paid for the services he had rendered to the patient.
A short time ago I bought an audio tape cassette at a yard sale. The cassette's label said it contained songs by the Rolling Stones. But when I got home and played the cassette, it had no music, only a recording of a meeting between nine people, all of whom seemed to be therapists. Here is a transcript of that meeting:
[Voice 1, apparently the group's leader:] "Ahem. I see the tape's going. One, two....[unintelligible, probably counting] It seems one of our number is missing. Well, he can listen to the tape and add his report later.
"As you all know, the government has asked us to examine the 'object' and report our findings. I'm told that the 'object' has to be kept in total darkness because any light would damage it. Personally, I believe that the 'object' has to be kept in the dark for reasons of national security. I also believe that we therapists were chosen to examine the 'object' because of our inherent sensitivity, intensive training and extensive experience in dealing with the unknown.
"I can report that the 'object' is clearly phallic, which means that it is longer than it is wide. It is flexible, wrinkled and soft. When I put my ear to it, I heard hissing sounds as if a fluid were moving to and fro through the 'object' which is probably hollow."
[Voice 2:] "I agree and disagree. Yes, the 'object' is phallic; but it is rigid, smooth and quite hard. I also put my ear to it and heard a grinding sound."
[Voice 3:] "I had the advantage of finding a chair in the dark of the examination room. Standing on the chair, I got a lofty perspective on the 'object.' It is broad and flat like a great, thick leaf that has some flexibility."
[Voice 4:] "I had the good fortune to find a ladder in the darkness. Standing on the ladder, I got an even loftier perspective on the 'object.' It is a great dome covered with a soft material but hard underneath. Who knows what wonders that dome contains?"
[Voice 5:] "My report is brief. The 'object' is a thick, cylindrical column sturdy enough to support a heavy load."
[Voice 6:] "My report is briefer. The 'object' is a wall."
[Voice 7:] "The 'object' is a low-slung canopy like a soft ceiling that sags in its center. The canopy is oppressively low."
[Voice 8:] "The 'object' is clearly a vertical rope with its upper end attached on high and lower end free to move about."
[Here it sounds like a door opens and someone enters the room somewhat breathless.]
[Voice 1 again:] "Ah, our missing colleague. You're just in time to give your report."
[Voice 9:] "Sorry for the delay. The 'object' is a hole in a crevice high above the floor. Normally the hole is closed tightly. But I was lucky enough to experience the hole's function. It opens and releases great chunks of soft material, some of which fell on my head. I was not injured but the material smelled awful. So I had to shower and change clothes, which made me late. Once again, I apologize."
The recording ends abruptly at this point. I am watching the leading therapy journals for a written report of the group's findings. However, national security interests may preclude publication.
__________
I have retold the old story about the elephant and the blind men with a stercoraceous ending. By means of this story, I urge people to tolerate diverse theories of autism, including mine. The proponents of autism theories, including the much maligned Bruno Bettelheim, were and are serious people who struggled to comprehend what they experienced about autism. None of them was or is a fool, ogre, merchant, scoundrel, crackpot or zealot. To deride their theories is to accuse them of stupidity, inhumanity, greed, malice, madness or fanaticism.
I never advocate agreement with any or all of these theorists. But we must struggle to understand how they reached their conclusions. Perhaps they were feeling some part of the "autism elephant" that we are overlooking. They belong to the tradition of autism. What G.K. Chesterton wrote about tradition follows:
Tradition means giving votes to the most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead. Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about. All democrats object to men being disqualified by the accident of birth; tradition objects to their being disqualified by the accident of death. Democracy tells us not to neglect a good man's opinion, even if he is our groom; tradition asks us not to neglect a good man's opinion, even if he is our father.
One day, a complex, steam-driven generator began to clank and rumble. Power output fell off. The generator's gauges showed some changes but nothing specific. The power plant workers made adjustments to the generator but the clanking and rumbling continued. Finally, the chief executive of the power company called in an expert.
For about three minutes, the expert scanned the generator's gauges, listened to the clanking and felt the rumbling. Then she walked over to one of the generator's many valves and gave it two quick turns to the left. As if by magic, the clanking and rumbling vanished. Power output rose to full capacity.
"That'll be $2000, please," said the expert to the chief executive.
"Outrageous!" cried the chief executive, "Two thousand dollars for three minutes' work and turning one valve? You're charging me $40,000 an hour. I want a detailed accounting."
"All right," the expert replied, "One dollar for turning the valve and $1999 for knowing which valve to turn."
This story took place high in the mountains of New Mexico. In the pre-dawn hours, a group of tourists had arrived to witness an Indian ceremony. It was cold and dark in the mountains. The tourists were uncomfortable and impatient.
Near by, an American Indian was asleep wrapped in a Navajo blanket. The tourists woke him and asked, "What time does the ceremony start?"
He answered, "When it's time," and drifted back to sleep.
The tourists roused him again and, pointing to their watches, said, "Exactly what time will it begin?"
He glared at them and said, "When it's time!" and went back to sleep. The ceremony did take place that day--when it was time.
Long ago in pre-Revolutionary Russia, a peasant walked into a bakery and said to the baker, "I have money for only one doughnut. I want you to sell me the doughnut that will satisfy my hunger."
The baker agreed and handed the peasant a doughnut. The peasant ate it and said, "That one didn't satisfy my hunger."
So the baker gave the peasant a second and a third doughnut. After eating each, the peasant reported, "That one didn't satisfy my hunger either."
Finally, the baker gave the peasant a fourth doughnut. The peasant ate it, declared, "That was the doughnut that satisfied my hunger!" and paid the baker for one doughnut.
__________
Sol Samuels, MD told this story to illustrate how learning about oneself is cumulative. No learning experience is wasted. But one's last teacher is likely to get all the credit for a good outcome.
Seekers suffer more.
Hate is not the opposite of love.
Love and hate are two sides of the same coin: involvement with the other person.
The true opposite of both love and hate is indifference.
Action speaks louder than words;
inaction speaks loudest of all.
Always explore; never judge.
Late one evening, a man was on his hands and knees in the grass under a street lamp. A passer-by, who was acquainted with the man on the ground, stopped and asked, "My friend, what are you doing?"
"I'm looking for my key."
So the passer-by got down on his hands and knees and started looking for the key too. After a time, the passer-by asked, "Where exactly did you lose your key?"
"Back over there, in the darkness."
"Then why are we looking for your key here under the street lamp?" exclaimed the passer-by.
"Because there's more light here."
Better maps make for better journeys.
Two Buddhist monks were walking downstream along the bank of a river. Usually the river was a trickle but now melting snows in the distant mountains had swollen it into a torrent of raging water.
On the opposite bank, a young girl, perhaps twelve years old, called to the monks to help her cross the river. She wanted to get home but feared being swept away by the rushing water.
One of the monks stepped into the water and found that the current was indeed treacherous, even for a grown man. He crossed the river, took the girl in his arms and carried her safely back.
The girl thanked the monk and continued homeward. The two monks kept walking downstream for about twenty miles without uttering a word. Finally, the monk who had carried the girl across the stream turned to his companion and said, "Something is troubling you, my brother. Let me hear it."
The second monk said, "Yes. You and I both took a solemn vow never to touch the body of a woman. Now you have broken that vow."
The first monk replied, "I merely carried the girl across the river but you have carried her all this way in your mind."
A man embezzled almost a million dollars from a bank where he worked. Federal authorities caught and convicted him but they never recovered the money.
One day the man's wife, who lived on their farm, wrote to him in prison saying, "I'd like to dig up the back forty and plant potatoes." The man immediately wrote back to her, "Whatever you do, don't dig up the back forty!"
Of course, prison officials read all mail coming to and from inmates. About a week later, the man's wife wrote to him again saying, "The FBI was just here and they dug up the whole back forty." The man wrote back to her, "Now you can plant those potatoes."
Those who cannot remember the past
are condemned to repeat it.
--George Santayana
Those who cannot understand psychopathology
are condemned to take part in it.
Those who cannot control their culture
are condemned to become its prisoners.
It is impossible to be in love with someone
if you have enough information.
I want to grow up
before I grow old.
Dr. Hiltrud Strasser (1999, p 103), a veterinarian, says something about horseshoes which makes them seem like psychiatric drugs.
From the foregoing chapters in this book, it should have become clear that not only are shoes not at all suited for keeping hooves healthy. . . , they are even less suited for restoring "sick" hooves to health; all they can do is anesthetize (while continuing to increase the damage). However, most unfortunately, even in veterinary circles, there is seldom a distinction made between healing and anesthetizing (ie., removing the pain to make the animal usable for a while longer).
Popular opinion seems to be that "orthopedic" (tight, solar-vault-increasing or heel-raising) shoeing can heal a horse because a lame horse, once the shoes are applied, moves better. What is usually ignored is the cause for this improved movement and the "removal" of pain: reduced nerve function as a result of circulatory impairment. All they see is that the horse has become "sound" and usable again--for some time. But this has nothing to do with healing, and the damage inside the hoof continues (now unnoticed) until the lameness problem recurs ever more frequently, and, at last, the horse is pronounced "incurable" and is put down.
I fear, dear Pilgrim,
that you will never reach Rome,
for you are on the road to Moscow.
...'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it: if the smack is sour,
The better for the embittered hour;
It should do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul's stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day....
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