A while back I decided to yell at my therapist. We both agreed that a shouting match was the most appropriate thing to do at that time. No, it wasn't one of those sterile, therapist-y agreements—"I want us to try something new. Let's have a shouting match. Don't be afraid; let it all out." We don't do business that way because it doesn't work. My therapist is a straight-up, no bullshit kind of guy. He wanted an emotional response. Well, he got one.
"Nathan," he said, "you just seem to think these psychiatrists all get together and sit around saying, 'Gee, let's see how many people we can hurt and oppress today.' You really think psychiatrists go to medical school for eight years and live on crappy doctors' wages just because they felt like hurting people was a cool thing to do?"
"They don't have to! The entire system is based on fallacious and fundamentally oppressive assumptions. I don't care what kind of person you are, if you believe that people's minds are diseased, you're going to be oppressive! It's the same as saying you're a flawed person!"
"Great. Tell me: when has a psychiatrist ever told you that you're a 'flawed person?'"
"I've been lucky not to have to work with psychiatrists since the mental hospital. But I know people who have. And if people weren't regularly abused like what happened to me, there wouldn't be a consumer survivor movement."
"See? With you it's always 'Oh, I've heard stories.' What about you? I want you to tell me right now, what evidence do YOU have?"
So I told him my story. I told how I went to the doctor for help because I thought I was sick. How he started talking behind my back to my friends and family about how I should probably get on meds. How I started sensing that people were conspiring behind my back. (Because they were.) And how they hit me with, "You have a mental illness. There's something wrong with your mind and it'll never get better. You'll probably live a half life filled with misery and regret, and take these pills which change the way you see the world but don't make anything better. Oh and be sure to talk to your friends and family about it, see what they have to say. That's important, you know."
"So," He said. "You went to a doctor for help, and he gave you help." (Gasp.) "What a surprise."
"How can you call that help??"
"Look, Nathan. It may have hurt. But he did what he thought was in YOUR best interest. But you give him no credit. You think he just did it all because he had some kind of grudge against humanity."
"You know, NAZI's were all ordinary, nice people too. They only became monsters because they were trained that way. Psychiatrists are trained to believe that people—REAL people—can have something FUNDAMENTALLY wrong with them, with their very minds. That's what they believe."
"Tell me, how many years have you been trained in psychiatry?"
No answer.
"Well I have been trained in psychiatry." (He loads a web page about the WRAP program.) "Look at this program that every mental health professional in the State of Idaho is REQUIRED to take."
From there on I was on shaky grounds. I'd never been formally trained in psychiatry, and though I'd heard things about the consumer-directed movement in mainstream psychiatry, I hadn't looked at it much. There was still a thing or two I wanted to say, though.
Emotions were hot, of course, and the fiery exchange went on deep into the night. But there was nothing about the shouting that wasn't congenial and ultimately beneficial. And we concluded with friendly words: about how he liked to see me "all fired up," how angry we never really get, and so on. The point is: it was beneficial. It was positive and wholesome. If I had not decided to get angry, I would've missed the point.
Let me show you something I made:
The execution may not have been the best, but those goddesses are real. They'll come to me, in the middle of the night after a bad day, wrap their beautiful thighs around me, and get right inside my mind.
They're like, "I fucking hate you. You're a terrible person. I wish you would die. You're bad. I hate you. Just die."
They break my neck. They feed me poison and rip my intestines out. They hurt me, and they don't stop.
They're like: "I hate you. Just die. I fucking hate you."
And suddenly, when the world stops, I burst into tears, look her straight in the eyes, and—the love. We cuddle; flowers bloom, babies coo, birds tweedle, and everything's alright.
You know that feeling of grimacing through an unbearably hot sauna then laying down for twenty minutes in 40 degree water, blissed out like you've taken some cocktail of the most amazing drug, only without the addiction or side-effects... kind of like that. Ladies, I'm telling you, it's hard to compete with an experience like this. (Come to think of it, probably shouldn't try either.)
See, in our culture, we're so rational and deliberating and scientific that we forget the heat of emotions. We forget the value of rage and depression, and of tears. I hate it when people say, "Don't cry." Actually I love it, because it makes you cry. The more they say it the more you cry. That's why it's so nice to say. The trick is, don't analyze and deliberate and come to the reasonable conclusion, "She probably doesn't want me to cry. I should stop now." Because tears are the seeds of joy.
I know it's not right to hurt people. I know it's not right to get angry and yell at someone and put them down. But sometimes, if you're extremely careful, it's the best way to show love. If you REALLY love someone, and if you yell at them lovingly, it's like that hot sauna. It opens your pores and all the bad stuff in the world comes out. Then when you cry together, and hug each other, and the birds and the flowers—it's like the cold water. It's bliss. As long as you love, you can't go wrong.
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