#psychiatrists
He sits next to me in the waiting room, his breath labored. He’s good looking, in his late twenties, wearing a red vest.
“Hi.” he says.
“Hello.”
His face is suntanned, but one electric white spark splits the colour of his forehead like a bolt of lightening. It confuses me for a moment, until I realise it’s a frown line that hasn’t tanned.
“Listen, mate...listen, mate. What’s your name?”
“Arthur…”
“Listen Arthur, can I call you Arthur?”
“Of course - Art if you like.”
“Listen Arthur – what are you in for?”
I put down my copy of ‘Perfect Home’ as the water dispenser blows a great gasping bubble.
“Bipolar.”
“Yeah? You being sectioned?”
“No, no. I’ve just come out of hospital. I’m having a review.”
“Right.” He chews his lip. “Do you reckon I’m gonna get sectioned then, or what?”
“Well - I don’t know. What are you here for?”
He sighs darting his eyes sideways, and his frown deepens.
“When I was sixteen I was at this party, right…”
“…Right…”
“And I was drinking. You know how it is. Few beers, bit of fun. You know how it is, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, so I’m at this party. And I feel sick, ok? So I go to the toilet. Nice toilet, friend’s house, pink bath, air freshener, nice. And I’m sick all over the place. What do they call it? Project summat...”
“Projectile vomiting…?”
“Yeah yeah, projectile vomiting. And then I gotta take a **** He lowers his voice, leaning into me. “So I’m all beery and I feel kinda terrible y’know? And I unzip my jeans and go to pull the old fella out…”
“Uh huh…”
“But there’s nothing there.”
“What do you mean there’s nothing there?”
“Exactly what I ******* say. My **** is just…gone. And I realise, right, that someone at that party has chopped it off. One of my friends. One of my friends has chopped my old fella off.”
I lock eyes with him.
“Jesus.”
“I know. One of my ******* friends.”
“And this was…?”
“When I was sixteen. Anyway. To cut a long story short – I went to Thailand a few years ago and I took this drug over there, some party drug. And my **** grew back. Everything’s been fine since then. But on Monday, well, you can imagine can’t you? I wake up and my **** has been chopped off again. Again. God knows who did it, but I've got a good idea...”
“And that’s why you’re here.”
“I’m here because I want them to find out the name of that party drug, the drug I got in Thailand, the one that worked. It worked. It actually worked, mate.”
“Was it ******
**** knows, but it worked.” He rubs his face with both hands, sighing. “So, what’dya reckon? Do you reckon they’re gonna section me?”
*Of course they’re going to ******* section you*.
“I don’t know, mate. But I thought that my neighbours were poisoning my cat, and they weren’t too pleased about that. Do you get what I’m saying?”
My psychiatrist interrupts to call my name, standing at the mouth of the waiting room with a smile. I shake the man's hand and wish him all the best.
I look over my shoulder as I go down the corridor, and he picks up my copy of ‘Perfect Home’.
He puts his hand down his jeans, adjusting something.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
So just how much ********
are you prepared to believe?
Lets see, take a seat
we've got half an hour
or maybe even better
you're locked up
at my mercy
& my team
are giving you drugs
for a diagnosis
I've given you
before we've even talked
& hopefully the drugs
are curing you of life, love, hope
& any despair you're feeling
at being stuck here
what's that?
you've ballooned in weight?
all you do is sleep?
your feet are turning inward?
You're nearly diabetic?
Your hands are always shaking?
I'm shrinking your
unwanted little brain?
A small price to pay
for the promise of freedom
my little puppet
on a string
lets see just how much
******** we can make you believe
I'll make you say it
' I'm ill'
or I'll never let you out
it's just my little whim
you're one of the chosen few
whose life will be shattered in two
kiss goodbye to your emotions
What? You're angry? That's atrocious.
You are dangerous
it's good we locked you up
and what?
You say you're in love?
sheer Erotomania, my dear
we will cure it, never fear
Talking of fear,
I'd say you have paranoia
MHM, Psychosis,
that's right, Momma
Happiness is mania
Sadness is depression
having said that,
you'll hopefully want to **** yourself
after our little session
to confirm my treatment of you
I'm an expert
I've got a degree in ********
no-one has ever
dared to say I'm wrong
so don't you start
I do, you know have a heart
& it beats only for me
so if you want to be free
you'd better **** it up
& suffer
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
Psychiatrists said my son was mad
But I only saw a child,
He needed to be locked up, he was dangerous and bad
They declared, but I knew he was only wild.
Psychiatrists have for decades employed
ECT, that damages brains, destroys memory;
With omnipresent power employed
The soul-disabling effects of SS-influenced lobotomy.
They prescribed (prescribe) addictive drugs
To all and sundry, on a whim,
Giving them to children, like street-wise thugs
Covered in expensive bling.
I took my son away
Protecting him from a psychotropic shower,
Until he’s strong enough to have his say,
Not silenced by mis-used power.
He talks of love and wondrous things,
Of things he’s read and seen
All they can see is a boy who stupidly grins-
Like playground bullies, ignorant and mean.
They said my son was mad
Needs to be drugged, pinned down, abused
But surely the world is worryingly sad,
Allowing people to be so used?
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 2:06 PM UTC
Neurotics build castles in the air.
Psychotics move into them
Aspergians think long and hard
About castles in the Air
And then design real blueprints.
Neurotypicals take the blueprints and
With their superior social skills,
Organize their actual construction. Psychiatrists sit back and collect the rent.
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 7:45 PM UTC