I Often Find Myself Where I Was Never Expected

Posted on September 22, 2015 by brettbatten

I’m not sure I have ever been afflicted with writers block but I do suffer from long silences. I may not put pen to paper but I am usually thinking and as a writer it is always in sentences. Even in my thoughts I manipulate language in my mind. I am often shy about posting and am minus the motivation to speak my truths. Who am I to think another would care what I conjure?
I have a scapegoat for my most recent drought. I have been without paid work in over a decade but of late I am a member of the workforce. I was employed this past decade with speaking, writing and blogging but I am closer to conventional employment these days. I’m not sure milking 1600 goats is conventional but money for manual labour is.
The majority of my work history involves sweat and most recently stiffness. I was going to write sooner of my endeavor into employment but I wasn’t confident of my commitment. For me a disability pension has been a disgrace; I always felt less or worse, lazy. These past few weeks have convinced me again that I am neither. I challenge any twenty something to outperform me in a milking parlour. I’m not bragging, I’m crying.
Writing is a sedentary lifestyle or at least mine was. I sat and smoked organizing my passion into phrases. I have been a month without tobacco and officially a goat milker. I am also officially stupid as I have found a farm where it is my responsibility alone to feed and milk over 1600 goats. That’s two barns full of frustration. Goats are fairly friendly and docile but definitely devious. A goat can see an unfastened gate from a quarter mile and any and all will squeeze through a four millimeter gap.
I’m still trying to figure out if they like to be milked. Feeding is part of the process and though it is a distraction each and every goat knows how to kick off the milking mechanism with a mouthful of food. You might ask “how do you milk 1600 goats in less than five hours?” and some day when I have five seconds or more I will figure it out. The word exhaustion will have to be a clue for now.
When I found the help wanted advertisement I thought, “That might be interesting. I like goats or the three I have met.” I now realize intense is closer than interesting when you’re talking about 1600. I want to quit for the first half of my shift which morphs into I want to finish which is followed by a 35 minute commute where I can say I just milked 1600 goats. I revel in the fact that no other driver on highway 401 is saying anything similar.
It is an agricultural assembly line of sorts but no two goats are the same. Each goat looks different from behind. I don’t have much time to compare but I am recognizing the odd rear end. One goat is freakishly bowlegged and unequivocally the only cooperative goat in the whole flock.
I bought a quart of goat’s milk as a form of job security and I encourage all my readers to do the same. I am giving a one year free subscription to my already free blog for any who mail in proof of purchase. I as yet don’t know how goat’s milk gets distributed in the area but I wouldn’t be surprised if any litre had a spoonful from “my” goats. I can’t say these goats are sweet but a lot of love goes into a gallon.
I use a staff to herd the goats from pen to parlour. I bang it on the gates and walls to speed them from place to place. One goat calmly ignores me. Number 208 waddles along and scratches herself on any and all surfaces. She reminds me not to rush in my fever of frenzy.
Another goat inspires me. It is a young buck who has a triangular wooden yoke fastened around its head to prevent it from escaping from its pen. I find myself confused about six times each night as it defies its constriction and enters and mingles with each pen of goats. I too dislike being told where to be and though not as adept as this bugger I often find myself where I was never expected.

Ignoring inflation it cost $550 000 dollars to deal with my mental illness institutionally.

Posted on March 21, 2015 by brettbatten

I read an article in the London Free Press regarding policing and mental health. In a survey Londoners were asked :

“What do you think is the most important crime-related or policing problem facing the community and London police?”

Mental illness replaced downtown safety/bar issues in the top five. Why do Londoners believe that mental health is a police concern? If physical health is not a police concern why is mental health? If diabetics deserve doctors from start to finish why wouldn’t people with mental illness? If we are ever going to view mental illness differently we need to insist on medical interventions rather than law enforcement interventions. Part of the problem is the widespread perception that mental illness is synonymous with dangerousness.

Less than 3% of violence is attributable to mental illness in the absence of substance abuse. If ever we notice someone we suspect as hearing voices or disoriented in their thoughts or actions or somewhat delusional we might cross the street. The truth is that on both sides of the street 97% of our vulnerability to violence comes from the people who have no mental illness. People with mental illness are more often the victims of crime than the perpetrator.

When we allow law enforcement to administer to a health concern it is little wonder that the health concern becomes stigmatized, related to crime and associated with violence. If the police escorted diabetics to the hospital we would all have similar impressions about diabetes. Consider what we visualize, assume, think, feel and understand about mental illness. Now imagine having similar perceptions for a cancer patient. It would be unfair to the diabetic person or the individual with cancer but for the mentally ill it is as it would be for others with other illnesses; a barrier to treatment and a difficulty of rehabilitation.

Five years of my life have been spent under 24 hour care 7 days a week in an institution. Ignoring inflation it cost $550 000 dollars to deal with my mental illness institutionally. If a tenth of that money was used for comprehensive treatment in my youth, I might not be writing this.

A mental health clinician paid $60 000 dollars per year could have treated me for one hour a day for 70 years.
If we continue to fund and access policing and correctional measures to deal with mental illness we will forever feed the wrong end of the cow.

We do not fight cancer by building more cemeteries.(King)

When I first started living in the community after the forensic hospital I saw a psychologist once a week, a specialized therapist once a week and my psychiatrist at least once a month. Those supports were needed initially and they would have been expensive but it was nowhere near the near $350 dollars a day it cost to keep me in an institution. People can be monitored and treated in their own homes.

I could simply say an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure but people might miss the point.

We leave mental illness unanswered and instead we deliver services mainly in times of crisis. Figure out the cost of an ambulance, two police officers and a truck or two of firefighters to respond to a suicide call and with any luck deliver that person to an emergency room and possibly a psychiatric unit for an indefinite period.

Now figure out how much it would cost for a therapist to prevent it in the first place.

If the financial realization is not enough for you consider letting heart disease progress to the point where invasive measures were necessary. With every other illness we prescribe the greatest amount of medicine at the beginning because to let any illness worsen is more devastating, difficult and expensive to treat. The social costs are immeasurable.

If you were ask a child how she feels about her father finding the best treatment for his heart she would likely answer the same for helping her father with schizophrenia. The best medicine at the beginning is not rocket science.

We are stupid to continue as we do but we are wrong and inhumane to do nothing.

People line up to test their bodies but we flee the very thought of having to do so with our minds and emotions.

Posted on March 16, 2015 by brettbatten

I came close to not being here a couple of times. The last and more serious time was before my since ten year struggle with justice. When I came to from my comma I was seeing perfectly clear double vision. My eyes cleared up within hours but I still keep a form of double vision.

Since I awoke that night I have survived solitary confinement, abuses, humiliations, abandonment, illness, betrayal, loss, terror, prejudice, stigma, hate, and poverty to degrees that would make them each significantly difficult on their own.

If I knew what I was going to be experiencing for over a decade I would have employed a method closer to a moving train. When I look at my experiences since my last suicide attempt I see great pain, untold sorrows and defeat after defeat. I also have the perspective to recognize the unique mixture of love and friendship that is woven into these experiences as well.

My best friend for a few years was a 330 pound forensic patient. Ed had been shot by the police in a fairly justified manner. Some people were afraid of Ed. He wasn’t pretty, sometimes smelled and had a huge voice.

Ed died about this time years ago. He was living in an apartment, practicing to get a new driver’s license and he drank coffee and smoked too much. I miss Ed but it doesn’t hurt much when I think of him these days. When I think and try to balance all the bad things that have happened with the good, I can’t. There is too much of each.

Maybe it’s like a marathon. People endure taxing the limits of their physical capabilities for a ribbon. People line up to test their bodies but we flee the very thought of having to do so with our minds and emotions. When I think of Ed he is so much more than a ribbon. I had to endure and struggle to subsequently meet many individuals. Ed was one and I am sharing the Eulogy I wrote about and for him at his memorial service:

His name is Ed and he’s my best friend. He’s been my best friend since he gave me his apple the first meal I had on the Fallen Angel Unit (Forensic Assessment Unit). At that time apples meant love and he gave me his. We didn’t say a word to each other as we ate our replica meals and I probably should have been afraid of his three hundred plus pounds but he gave me his apple. From that day on Ed has been nothing but generous to me. As I write this my belly is still full of the soup he made and shared with me in his apartment and my veins course with nicotine from the pack of cigarettes he gave me tonight. I visit Ed most days in the community. He has a small apartment and it is a great getaway for both of us. We are both weary of hospitals and nurses and cameras and crappy food and shared toilets and little or no privacy. Ed and I share more than meals, we share our experiences. We talk about what has happened to us sometimes, usually he more than me, but we share it in silence always. We sit together and know we have each been in Holes and siderooms and handcuffed and shackled, he more than me. Ed’s story spans twenty-five years; his last battle has been seven years. My whole experience with the law has only been seven years. Ed reminds me of how good I have it, literally at times.

When I was on the Fallen Angel Unit for my Assessment Ed and I would sit in the smoking room and rule. We were two that truly had our heads, or so it seemed to me, and we were both personable. Ed would give me his pouch of tobacco and let me roll cigarettes whenever I wanted. Every morning we would be the first two into the room. I would have a huge manic smile on my face waiting for him. We liked each other for some reason or maybe for no reason. I think because I don’t talk much and am fairly quiet Ed likes me. I am generous back to Ed. He has no wheels so I run the odd errand for him getting groceries or Thursday night fish and chips.

When I came to the Forensic Treatment Unit Ed would become one of my dorm mates. Ed would lie in his bed on his back and rock his head back and forth for about an hour. This was his stress reduction and I think he picked it up somewhere in his twenty odd years of incarceration. Ed was a good dorm mate; he always had food to share and a pair of shoes to sell.

I could write a whole book about Ed, he is full of stories. Ed spends his days smoking and drinking coffee and knows everything about everyone and if he doesn’t, he is not shy about asking. “Where are you going Brett?” “Where were you Brett?” What did you have for supper has to be one of his favourite questions. Sometimes I resent the invasion into my privacy as I don’t know how to be rude and say mind your own business. I also realize he doesn’t go anywhere or do anything so news is his only entertainment.

“Well you got out of here for the weekend, that’s the main thing, good for you.” Ed is always genuinely happy for me and any progress I make as far as privileges. He also gives me hell for not pushing for more. “When are you going to ask for ‘Live in the Community’ Brett?” “Soon” I answer. He says I should be out of here and we both know it is true but the system is what the system is. It is like a cold, there is no cure it just has to run its course.

Ed befriended me when I was most ill. When everyone else pulled away, Ed was my friend. I wasn’t aware of the fact that I needed anyone but I think he was. Ed didn’t look compassionate but he was. Ed lived in the present and appreciated things as simple as a cigarette, a coffee or a burger.

I have learned more about generosity from Ed than from any combination of people in my life. He really didn’t have anything but what he did have he shared. I was definitely on the receiving end of more meals and coffee’s than I was able to repay. I don’t think Ed kept track but I regret not being able to repay some of that generosity.

Ed used to call me every day. What did you have for supper Brett? Ed was a little preoccupied with food but it was one of his few pleasures. Food becomes a very important part of your life when you are incarcerated. Most days the high point of your day or a significant marker for time is a meal. To receive little or no satisfaction from that meal, undermines what little morale you can muster at times. I sometimes enjoyed telling Ed about my culinary habits when I shifted from eating out of a can to actually preparing meals. I think Ed’s cooking inspired me to do some myself. I’m glad Ed was able to eat what he liked in his final years.

Ed was an outgoing and friendly person. He knew many names and felt emotion for what he perceived were injustices in others circumstances. This is empathy. Ed was rich with friends and I was blessed to be one.

Ed seemed obstinate and defiant towards what he would deem as his oppressors, many who would say they were simply helping Ed but we don’t know exactly how Ed perceived things and it is his perception of events that coloured his actions. If a man feels truly wronged as Ed often did then it is in his right to pursue some means of remedy. Ed usually went within his rights and sought out legal avenues to remedy the wrongs he perceived. Some would argue he wasn’t always rational in these pursuits but imagine the emotion involved in defending your rights as a person. Ultimately Ed wanted autonomy, he didn’t want to be needled, literally, he wanted to be left in peace. I don’t find this to be anything but rational and it is unfortunate Ed is not here to enjoy the peace he now has. Ed has finally received his Absolute Discharge.

I have an apple for you Ed, somewhere, somehow I will get it to you.

Stigma and Ignorance are the By-products of Fear, Laziness and Embraced Stupidity

Posted on March 2, 2015 by brettbatten

Stigma is an obtuse, overused and misunderstood word. It affects many and it is prevalent. What is it? Where does it come from? How do we fight it? Can we put an end to it?

Stigma is the steam that rises from boiling ignorance. The ignorance itself can harm you but it is contained in the pot and often kept under the lid of self. The steam is as dangerous and no less powerful. It is difficult to contain and often even escapes the lid, as actions and words. People are less frequently burned by the pot of ignorance boiling on the stove of stupidity; they are burned and scarred by the steam which flies in every direction when we reach to turn the burner off.

People cling to their stupidity and ignorance because it is safe, familiar and requires no effort. Ignorance and laziness perpetuate each other. I don’t have to access or disseminate information. I don’t have to think, change or challenge old perceptions and I do not need to find opposing information or views. I can revel in the incestuousness of my mental capacities and efforts. I don’t have to do much but defend my ignorance as I sit in my easy chair of indifference. I can shout opinions and spew a semblance of knowledge as though I am informed and important. To be the king of incorrect is to rule none the less and we all want to issue creeds even if they are not credible.

Most do not want to change their world view and we cling to what we know because even if it is wrong there is a power to it. We are competent in our incompleteness. Though in reality, we are complete in our incompetence. We don’t alter our world view in even small ways because it causes a huge shift in much of what we know and recognize. A paradigm shift is a new beginning and it is intimidating to start the race over or even have to backtrack to pick up what is missing or needed to continue. It requires effort to go over a series and system of beliefs. It is easier to remain self-righteous and defend what is incorrect than to journey into the difficult work of rearranging perceptions, presumptions and past efforts. It is easier to carry a suitcase full of misinformation than lay it down and decide what is required for the journey. In the end though, we carry the unusable, the unclean and the useless.

It could be likened to colouring with only two crayons. To use the whole box requires further mastery and further attempts. It requires learning, trial and error, mistakes and failure. To paint with a couple of colours a person can become proficient but the final result is often pathetic. It does not inspire, uplift or recreate anything real, as the world is made of all the colours, not just two. Many people would rather be the master of one thought than flounder in the fluidity of alternate information.

We would all prefer to sit on our pride than admit we are mistaken or worse, wrong. Admitting we are mistaken is a process of growth and the fruit of an elastic and engaged mind. I would rather a lifetime of not really knowing than believing half truths and mistaken ideas and theories.

To expand and contribute to the changing atmosphere of knowledge and information means you must embrace change. We all flee change to a degree. We eat the same foods because they are familiar and safe. We will experience what we know. There is little chance of experiencing a bad taste but the risk is never knowing a new flavour. We find comfort in the same friends for similar reasons and read the same newspapers to solidify our beliefs and world view. Familiarity is comfortable and provides a degree of safety in an unpredictable and quickly changing world. Just when we figure out how to program the VCR we have to purchase a DVD, BlueRay and then Netflix. Some of this is fun but some of it is frustrating and it involves learning and an openness to change. It can be daunting, intimidating and it all requires effort. However, if you cling to the VCR, you are destined to watch the same movies and you will become useless by being rewound continuously. You will not witness a changing, evolving and magnificent world. You may be comfortable; it might seem familiar or safe but as predictable and navigable as it might seem it is nothing more than a shame.

We were given minds not to make them but to change and expand them. We are meant to explore and create with them. We are called not to entrench reality but to uncover it. Few gems are found on a beaten path. They are found in far corners and usually require the effort of digging and sifting through what is worthless and unusable. Ignorance and the stigma that steams from its depth are worthless. It is pollution. Those that perpetuate and promote stigma are pathetic as they waste their lives wandering the same paths in the hope of becoming rich. Unfortunately, it impoverishes the entire village when laziness and comfort overpower imagination and curiosity. Thought. Nothing original can be found, dreamed or created from the comfort of conformity and the state of indifference and ignorance.

I assumed the older individuals near me had been blasted by Bryan Adams from their basements throughout the 80’s by their pimple faced offspring

Posted on February 25, 2015 by brettbatten

A fine friend of mine took me to a Bryan Adams concert last night. I can still hear so I might as well speak. I had only been to one other concert in my life about 28 years ago. There were similarities and differences. For one I wasn’t infected with a severe case of Poison Ivy so this concert seemed shorter. People were using their Smartphone lights for ambiance rather than Bic lighters and the distinct smell of marijuana was missing. Possibly it was present but we were surrounded by retirees who may have traded their reefer madness for Robaxin.

When Bryan Adams came on stage over a thousand people with purchased floor seats jumped to their feet and through some sort of herd mentality remained standing for almost 3 hours. All it would have taken was the second row tapping the first on the shoulder to sit down but some mixture of moronity prevented civility and comfort. The event staff could have saved a lot of time by simply stringing numbered ropes to stand behind but I guess you need something to drape your coat over. It was rather pleasant to sit and be entertained and it reminded me of the more civilized hockey games I attend in the same building. I was appreciative of the wisdom that age enables being seated in front of me. I was also spared the indiscriminate use of cell phones and other blinding technology that permeated the seemingly different age bracket found on the floor.

The audience was a complete mixture of generations. I assumed the older individuals near me had been blasted by Bryan Adams from their basements throughout the 80’s by their pimple faced offspring. The individuals who were clearly born less than two decades ago must have happened on their parent’s old vinyl or heard his beat through their mother’s belly buttons. I do not doubt they too enjoy his music for it is somewhat timeless to teenagers and universal in its lyrics and lessons. However, I had my suspicions that they may have been fame magnets and drawn to any stage where they could claim proximity to a public figure.

Bryan ordered us to raise and wave our arms for one song and I felt like a prepubescent princess. It looked cool on the other side of the arena but I felt somewhat uncool. Even when I listened to Bryan Adams in my youth I did not and would not expose my teenage ego to similar potential ridicule.

Bryan picked a woman from the audience to dance on camera to one of his songs. I felt overlooked, ignored and found the gesture somewhat sexist. I can gyrate my hips at least as good if not better and it wasn’t exactly intimate with her remaining in her seat. Needless to say I wasn’t awarded a T-shirt and my private dancer practice was all but wasted. I don’t much like Madonna or Lady Gaga but I expect they might appreciate my gender and gyrations so I have ordered tickets to each on Ticketmaster which I am renaming Dancing with the Stars. Bryan Adams has a slew of hits but in my humble opinion I would have been a bigger one.

To my fine friend I say thank you for the ticket and for applying pressure to my shoulder when Bryan asked for someone to dance with him. It was an enjoyable blast from the past and a re-experience of some of my youthful memories and emotions. Music can be timeless and in this instance I almost forgot I am bald.

We Can Find A Limp In Anyone But Especially When We Use Our Own Gait As A Measure

Posted on February 21, 2015 by brettbatten

I was checking out Twitter and clicked on a link to:

“6 Things That I Have Noticed About People Who Change and Recover From Mental Illness.”

I was excited by the prospect of change and recovery. After I battled with the Pop-Up screens where Barry Pearman was flogging his free book, the wind was knocked out of me. Barry’s first life changing “great stride” was:

1) They make their bed every morning.

Just before I was about to flush my anti-psychotics, mood stabilizers and anti-depressants down the toilet I thought about it for a minute. I started to wonder how many individuals Barry Pearman has seen change and recover. My next question was what the hell is Barry doing in all these bedrooms? Is he a sleuth or a slut?

According to Barry I shouldn’t “drift into the day” but like the Navy Seals who are renowned therapists in his world, I should start my day with “a drilled in positive habit.” I have had suicidal months and been immobilized by depression. It was not a matter of preferring to stay in bed; I in fact could barely get out. Had I owned a bedpan I would have used it. I have also been psychotic and my bed was as likely to have been a magic carpet as anything I would tidy and tuck.

Dear Barry,

If you are going to speak about mental illness please consider the vast array of degrees and diagnoses. What you consider positive may be worlds away from what I value or consider positive. I don’t make my bed for the same reason I do not do the zippers up on my pants when I fold and put them in the drawer. It is to me slightly illogical, a waste of my time and a pointless make work project. When I do not pull my sheets up and tuck them in each morning it enables me to refrain from pulling them back out each evening. You say illness I say efficiency.

I’m sure you’re sure I am destined to a state of illness but I personally look back at my life and see that I have “changed” my mental illness and I have enjoyed prolonged periods of recovery. Obviously this has nothing to do with making my bed.

I am as illiterate as you but in my estimation recovery is not always a destination. Further, it is my belief that recovery is a highly personalized process that can be different for each of us. I can look at another person with mental illness and “should” on them but their habits and efficacies can still qualify them as recovering or recovered. Some individuals with or without mental illness are comfortable to leave mustard on their shirts. We can find a limp in anyone but especially when we use our own gait as a measure. If any measure is to be used it must originate mainly in the individual. If an individual with or without mental illness is able to find meaning and arrive at whatever points of personal satisfaction they set out for themselves they are in no small way thriving. Is it “change” or recovery? I cannot answer that and neither “should” you.

Kind regards,
Brett

I Use Christ as a Benchmark and Pull Back the Arrow Once More

Posted on February 20, 2015 by brettbatten

I was thinking about God and or specifically Jesus Christ. He was a remarkable figure and I in no way want to disparage or disgrace His Spirit or messages. Any who know me would assume that was a given.

To a degree I understand His sinless nature and I recognize that in giving His life I was spared. He should have been elevated and celebrated when He was alive but He died betrayed, abandoned and with something less than the dignity He deserved. That is part of the story and in no small way one of the reasons I am drawn to Him.

I was thinking, He was flesh and bone-a human-a man. My understanding is He knew what it meant to be human, excelled at it and was even exposed to temptation. At the same time “to err is human.” His sinless nature does not separate me from Him but in a subtle way it does. I take comfort that He understands my pain and struggles and I believe He is often a presence in my life. I was simply wondering if He really does understand me. He did not sin so possibly He does not know what it means to feel shame, guilt or regret. I think He knew and knows more about forgiveness than anyone before or after but did He know about extending forgiveness to self?

I’m not saying the story would have been better if when He hit His thumb with the hammer He threw it, cursed and kicked the cat but I would have been drawn to that as well. Maybe it would have made His sacrifice impossible or impaired it somehow but if I knew He said, “Wow, that was stupid of me” or “sorry I messed up, I did not mean to hurt you but I have.” “I failed there but I will do better next time.” That would have inspired me to do better as well.

Maybe it would relieve some of the pressure to do and be perfect. To never sin is a worthy aim but to miss the mark often hones the aim and creates efficacy. I keep trying because I do miss the mark. I would sit on my sorry ass if I hit it the first time. I do not throw my hands up and say “I have fallen short, it’s over, I am disqualified.” I use Christ as a benchmark and pull back the arrow once more.

I say and do the wrong things fairly consistently. I am a blind archer but in my heart I believe God finds satisfaction in my persistence. I have a conscience and I sometimes shake my head at myself but I also laugh at myself. I’m hoping God is so busy helping you that He doesn’t notice me. “What have you been up to Brett?” “Who me?” “Oh a little of this and a little of that-you know the usual.” “Maybe we should talk about that.” “Sure. I’ll pencil you in.” I hope Jesus and God get me. Humour aside, I do hope they watch me once in a while and say: “Well, at least he’s entertaining.”

With all due respect, thanks for making me think God.

Catherine Zeta Jones

Posted on October 6, 2014 by brettbatten

An anti-stigma campaign I follow on Twitter sent me a message that “Actress Catherine Zeta Jones has been living with bipolar for several years and rejects any stigma attached to it.” Easy for her to say. It was further Tweeted that Catherine Zeta Jones says there is “no shame in seeking help.” For someone with fame and finances this might even be true.

For Catherine Zeta Jones, mental health stigma and treatment are vastly different from the experiences of many who also suffer from mental illness. For her being open about her diagnosis and experiences is at least unintentional personal publicity. As they say: There is no such thing as bad press. In the case of celebrities a personal persona and public appetite is created and nourished by being a news story. It would appear that Catherine Zeta Jones has thrown herself in front of an oncoming car for the benefit of many but I would argue that the car has already driven by. The lack of blood and guts, spell evidence.

Catherine Zeta Jones is portrayed as some patron saint of bipolar but what has she really risked? Stigma is at a point that it is rarely rolled out for the famous. I am not inferring that there is no such thing as stigma but little if any cuts through fame and favour. Call me cynical but these revelations don’t seem to affect these individuals beyond increasing their brand, public persona and popularity.

If I’m depressed in bed or manic at the mall, am I apt to seek help or find relief in Catherine’s revelations? The rubberneckers look but the rest of us are too busy trying to survive. These celebrities don’t give interviews in their underwear next to dust bunnies; they follow a loose script in their personal libraries in Bermuda. Speaking of which, what meds do I take to find myself in Bermuda with a maid?

I think “Catherine The Great” has been a source of conversation around mental illness but I would argue that her battle with stigma is similar to Don Quixote who mistakes windmills for giants and charges at full speed. My suspicion is that stigma is a word, for Catherine Zeta Jones. For many stigma is no windmill but a true giant. It affects self image, personal and family relationships, employment and status.

When I think about bipolar I don’t envision a person like Catherine Zeta Jones who uses overpriced shoes for bookends because they’re too cute for closets. In my world people with bipolar have their shoes taken away so they can’t asphyxiate themselves with the laces.

I imagine Catherine’s experience with mental illness has been challenging and difficult but in the scheme of things we are talking about First World problems in comparison to Third World problems. Did she have to wait six months to see a psychiatrist? Were the chairs in the waiting room plastic or leather? Did she have to wonder if she could afford her medication? Was she worried about missing work? Did she have to resort to disability assistance to feed herself?

I’m waiting for one of these famous sacrificial lambs to tell us about their hemorrhoids. That experience is the same for us all and if I knew Catherine Zeta Jones used “Preparation H” I could actually hold my head higher at the pharmacy. There’s little fame in swelling so I shall suffer in silence.

Laying Eggs, Lifting Lumber and Other Painful Moments

Posted on August 27, 2014 by brettbatten

I went to visit my mother and step-father today. Being a quadragenarian makes one susceptible to the company of septuagenarians. I don’t know about others but such terms make me feel like something with a pin through its back on a specimen board. Earning my grade 12 diploma in my thirties obliges me to borrow obtuse and pretentious phrases but in my heart I mean forty and seventy.

My mother mentioned she had a couple of errands in town and since I had ingested a meal I felt obliged to assist. Our first stop was a TSC store which is a farm store. I like TSC stores. My roots are rural and I have pleasant memories when I can browse work boots, pellet guns and fencing. Mom wanted to pick up some chicken feed for her several hens. I was there just to check things out but I found myself next to a 50 pound sack of chicken feed. It suddenly became clear why chickens produce more poop than protein. I’m fairly logical and literal and I stood in disbelief at the size of the bag. I was expecting something about the size of an egg carton. If what goes up must come down then it stands to reason that what goes in should come out. Apparently I had failed agricultural arithmetic.

I looked at my mother. I looked at the feed and again looked at my mother. I waited for what seemed like minutes expecting her to grab the bag and get on with it. She didn’t budge. She mentioned that she usually uses one of the carts which were in the vicinity. It was a subtle challenge and I grabbed the bag and awkwardly threw it over my shoulder. It became a bad idea about halfway to the checkout. I struggled with the weight and my legs were wobbling. I bumped into the display of garden seeds and frantically searched for my mother. I have never wanted to pass an object as much since I was running down the football field in high school with fierce athletes on my heels. Like then I was on my own. I suddenly didn’t want to be at TSC. Normally I would be cursing but I kept telling myself there are eggs in butter tarts and biscuits. My mother is an exceptional cook. I wanted to explain she could obtain the same results with store bought eggs but I needed to save what little breath I had.

I made it to the checkout sweating profusely. I wanted to ask the cashier why the damn batteries were near the door but the 50 pound sacks of cat, dog and chicken feed were in the back corner. Fighting back tears of frustration I asked the woman if they guaranteed that my dog would lay eggs if I fed this to her. Not missing a beat she retorted with “not in writing.” It seemed she was trained to deal with difficult customers.

I was spent but we had to make a stop at the local lumber store. I like lumber stores. Trees are one of the few things that smell good when they’re dead. I entered the store without trepidation as I know they have employees who load your larger purchases.

We backed up near the loading bay with our slip of dead tree which is used to inform the yardman that you want more dead tree. I turned the car off and looked at my mother. She didn’t budge. I flung open the door. “Seriously?” “This is ridiculous and repetitive.” I met the yardman with curses on my lips and we nearly ended up with lattice and a bag of cement. I finally sputtered darn board and he clued in and climbed the shelving to fetch some barn board. I couldn’t quite understand why he was making money sliding two boards off a shelf while I had to drag it across the parking lot to the car. I pinched my hand between the boards which sent me off on a tirade. “She probably wants me to cut and nail this crap as well…I’m in hell.”

Joking aside and as lazy as I am there is a degree of defeat in doing favours for my family. I give up on any sense of balance when I look back at all the jail visits and court appearances. I can’t compete with lawyer’s fees, canteen money and a roof over my head. There have been so many meals and forms of love that can’t even be logically listed.

Chickens are like children. We put bags of food into them and usually end up with more crap than accomplishments but love isn’t logical. Like an egg it forms naturally and sustains, fortifies and is often made into something nearly as wonderful as my mother’s butter tarts.

Aside

I received my final grade 12 credits at an adult learning centre in St. Thomas. I was in my thirties and living on a forensic rehabilitation unit. I had been to college for a year but somehow without my grade 12. I don’t remember it being my idea to go and I found it tiring but it was good for me in many ways. I saw faces that were different and met some great staff and students.
It was a little awkward being a student who was locked up at night. The big white vans we travelled in were familiar to the community. They gave us bagged lunches which I never thought much of figuratively and literally. A young woman who was friendly to me commented on the sawed off juice containers they included. “Where do you get those, they’re cute.” They didn’t give us Costco cards or I’d have flashed one. I should have mumbled something about my aunt who was either in hospital or worked in one.
We would sometimes have to take a taxi back to the hospital. One day a fellow patient and I were in one together. When we got back to the hospital he asked me if I knew I was supposed to sit in the back. I would sit in the front when I was alone or not. That’s where the view was. I might not have had my grade 12 but I wasn’t stupid.

Irony

Posted on March 14, 2014 by brettbatten

The troubles with regards to Corrections Canada and the political apathy that has hung like a cloud for decades over the conditions inmates with mental illness are exposed to has been put in perspective for me this morning. I feel a little foolish having for so long gone on about people like Ashley Smith and the recent coverage by the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation of inmates with mental illness kept in solitary confinement. The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation delivered to my plate a headline that almost makes me want to eat my words.

“Turkey farm video shows “gaping hole” in government animal welfare oversight”

“’The birds are not being properly monitored’ said Ian Duncan, an animal welfare expert with the University of Guelph.” I checked for a comparable expert somehow connected to Corrections Canada but he or she must be out to lunch.

Don’t get me wrong, the treatment of turkeys is important to me. Turkeys deserve dignity and respect if we are going to smother them with gravy. There can be no doubt that these are “disturbing images”, unlike a solitary cell with a mentally ill inmate shackled to his cot and his toilet full of urine and more.

“Mercy for Animals Canada has also filed a complaint with the Ontario Provincial Police, which has launched a criminal investigation. The Ontario Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (OSPCA) is also investigating.” My Turkey a la King will be much easier to swallow knowing we have these agencies and that they have powers and are so willing to act on behalf of turkeys.

“There’s not much being done right now and it’s a major concern” says Geoff Urton with the British Columbia Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. The turkeys themselves must be buoyed knowing something is being done and we have agencies and police forces in each province able to advocate and intervene.

“Ultimately, there should be some kind of proactive inspection and monitoring compliance system in Canada. Otherwise, how can anybody know how these animals are being treated?” Seemingly, words right out of my mouth.

“A 2009 Harris Decima poll commissioned by the Vancouver Humane Society (I forgot to mention that many cities have their own agencies in case the provincial ones drop the ball) found that 72 per cent of Canadians surveyed said they were willing to pay more for meat that was certified humane.” I wonder what the numbers would be regarding humans that are kept in cages. Human and humane seem to go together but we seem quite concerned when it is denied what is and always will be a bird.

Duncan says:”…the general public, I think if they see something like this, they’re going to be absolutely horrified. Horrified that this is how their food is being produced.”

I’ve been advocating for the humane treatment of inmates with mental illness for a while now. I guess the answer is to have those with mental illness fill their pockets with peas and pour gravy over themselves.

Enjoy your supper but be careful not to choke on the irony.

What I Learned In Jail

Posted on March 12, 2014 by brettbatten

Corrections in General

What we pass onto prisoners through the justice and correctional system returns to the street.

Treatment in = treatment out

If we expose people in prison to unsafe conditions why would they care to contribute to a safe society on the outside? If we are inhumane or uncaring how can we expect them to be otherwise? If we allow them the opportunity to be brutal on the inside of a prison it should be no surprise to find them brutal when they are released.

We can agree jail should be a place of denial and punishment but to interject humanity or respect only makes one more mindful of their shortcomings regarding the same.

When we separate a prisoner from society normally what happens is they create their own society. There is a separate code, culture and hierarchy and this would often include” heavies” (inmates who would control what they could). This culture continues to exist in the mind of many released inmates.

While at the Ontario Correctional Institute (OCI) there was no real hierarchy and no heavies. Our behaviours mirrored more closely how people would carry themselves on the outside.

Hierarchies spawn violence. People fight for the top, or peck at those unfortunate enough to be on the bottom. I also believe it would diminish a portion of recidivism. I am not educated in the psychology of crime but for some prisoners they feel they have a higher significance and importance in jail. Anecdotally, the returning prisoners I was familiar with were those who thrived in jail, those who were above others in the hierarchy. For some, being in jail is a status boost.

If you can eliminate the hierarchy there is less social and psychological benefit to risking your freedom through criminal activity. For some, crime becomes a no-loss scenario.

1) Chance of gain in the crime

2) Social gain in returning to a situation where power and control (that would otherwise be unattainable) are obtained

The institutional hierarchy is mimicked by the inmates. One person walks around like they own the place and the rest fall in line according to loyalty, familiarity or criminal charge. Rather than years or service or specialty a prisoner leads by force and manipulation. We use what we are charged with as the only means of status. The pedophile could be strong and smart but never will they have status which renders them powerless. At OCI the pedophile could be democratically lifted from their position. A charge had no bearing on whether you were in charge of TV programming or janitorial duties. It allowed each prisoner a means to be something more. When someone is elected to a position a personal best must also be a communal best. When inmates depend on each other they respect each other. The more inmates manage themselves the more they value their surroundings and each other. With a concrete system with which to build a society and community within corrections, inmates can maintain a workable humane safe system.

The “heavies” on the units need to be the Correctional Officers (CO). The COs must set the tone and rules. There should be no difference between justice and prisoner justice. In my experience some are fine with the idea of prisoner’s doling out justice on each other but it is inhumane. I am reminded of the Romans throwing humans to lions. Each unit has a lion, a heavy. All prisoners are prone to being beaten (or eaten) when there is unsupervised leadership among the inmates. Cut the head off the lion. The institution should be the leader and any leadership among the inmates should be democratic and supervised.

If we want prisoners to return to society and follow rules… the best place to teach them is in jail. Prisoners need a reality in jail that better serves their reformation and society as a whole. Prisoners need simple tools to better themselves. We have to impart on them a degree of self-worth or they have nothing to lose. We need to refashion some of how they relate and what they believe. Once they are released they are vulnerable to financial stresses, relationship stresses, temptation and addiction. If they exit without learning new ways of relating re-entry to jail is more likely.

Higher penalties while incarcerated

There needs to be more consequence for misdeeds while incarcerated. It is pointless to hold offenders to justice in the first place if there is none while they are in jail. We double speed fines in construction zones so why not double the penalty for infractions while in jail? A crime on government property could have a harsher sentence?

Safety and Surveillance

When a guard or correctional officer (CO) is among prisoners it may potentially place the guard in danger but it offers a degree of safety and security otherwise unattainable. Guards are more likely to intercept contraband and weapons. They will be able to identify problem prisoners and can administer to that individual. Having guards in close proximity would enable the CO to maintain order and identify prisoners with special needs. A CO could become an assessment tool in classifying prisoners and diverting those in need of more security, health services, treatment, segregation etc.

Preventing a fight or beating by being present to de-escalate arguments is safer than rushing onto the unit to break one up already in progress. The units I spent most of my time in were in the Sarnia Detention Centre. They were basically cages. When trouble was finally detected COs had to open two doors to separate a fight or end a beating. Most of it would have been preventable by simply having a guard on the outside of the cage to watch us. Instead, they sat in a hallway with the door to noise and news closed. In my opinion some COs are responsible for the violence that can happen through complacency. They understand the prisoner code and many are covertly supportive of it.

If a CO was closer they could overhear conversations and be able to immediately intervene or alert more guards to help them with the situation. We need COs trained in de-escalating and diffusing violent situations.

If two guards are present a signal can go out for extra personnel at the first sign of trouble rather than in the midst of it.

Prior to placement if an offender is classed as violent through conviction or past record they may be more appropriately placed.

The x-ray machines I saw at Toronto South Detention Centre ensure that no weapons enter. If there is no contraband which is achievable through these x-ray chairs, the unit becomes safe to both inmate and guard. My experience with jails is that the response time for additional officers is between five and fifteen seconds. With a guard viewing the inmates at all times a fight or beating should only last as long. Two officers become six quickly. If they can interact they will prevent even that.

Surveillance in jails should be complete. In the forensic system I was viewable on camera except in private spaces. Privacy can be suspended in the name of security. If we have the right to strip an inmate naked do we not have the right to watch them do almost everything else? Cameras don’t eliminate violence but they can prevent it.

Toronto South seemed ideal from a security standpoint; two officers on the actual unit with one guard in the tower watching over the area.

No one has time to consider their wrongs or take responsibility and work towards improvement when they must remain alert to their surroundings for safety.

At OCI, I had a desk and felt safe so I was able to learn about myself. I devoured self-help books as I struggled with my illness. The pages didn’t alter my symptoms but I have been altered. I wrote part of my book in the form of letters from jail. If a unit is in any way unsafe I would not sit with my focus on words home. If we can make units safe we have an environment where programming and prisoner improvement can take place.

Prisoner Violence

If we are complacent regarding violence and prisoner justice it detracts from taking offence at crime to begin with. If we subject prisoners to a lawless community our communities are subjected to the same when the same attitudes and behaviors are released.

Many crimes are rooted in not relating well with people. When an inmate is exposed to inappropriate interactions it reinforces existing deficiencies. If an answer to argument is a fist it will land you in jail where the fist is still the answer to argument. We are releasing people with experience in further lawlessness. It should be the opposite if we expect results from our investment in their lives.

It makes no sense to process prisoners with the same disregard we fault them for. People learn best by being shown. It can be with words or more active. If we demonstrate a degree of respect toward inmates they can learn what it is, use it amongst themselves and share it with the families and communities they return to.

At OCI a democratic and just community was built by the institution. Most adhered to it and those that didn’t were simply removed. If we build a community where inmates can practice living thoughtfully they can recognize the importance of the same on the outside.

News from the street enters the jail and news of the jail enters the street. Prisoners can reach people regardless of which side of the bars they are on. A fight or argument in jail doesn’t always end there. The prisoner culture spills into our communities.

We want prisoners to have respect. To allow brute force and manipulation to run a unit proves our disregard and furthers the cycle of disrespect.

Privileges, Programming and Responsibilities

I spent roughly a year at OCI in Brampton. I will share some of my perceptions.

It needs to be said that had I not experienced detention centres I would be unaware of the positives I experienced at OCI. For me, a toilet seat and a real knife and fork were worth behaving for. I’m not being flippant when I say if you offered me a cheeseburger for every month I behaved, I would have waxed the deputy superintendent’s car every frosty morning. It doesn’t have to be much to encourage positive behaviour and behaviour modification.

With privileges, good behaviour can be rewarded and anchored to the positive. With increased privileges on the horizon an inmate has cause to do well. A privilege provides two reasons to comply with conditions and commands. An inmate wants to do well so they are not demoted to a lower level of privilege and they are also compliant so they can advance to the next level.

With the deprivation of incarceration comes economical and simple means of reward: the TV could be left on an hour longer; thirty minutes more sleep on Sunday; a jug of watered down coffee for the unit.

In Sarnia an inmate would sweep and mop the guard’s walkway for a jug of coffee. I cleaned an entire unit and moved mattresses just for the sake of having something to do. For me it was quite an honour. Normally a guard would choose the “heavy” and blindly reinforce the hierarchy.

A person can learn healthier habits through positive reinforcement. At OCI I was the secretary for a spiritual program that we crowded for. I kept attendance and if three or more sessions of the 16-week program were missed a person would not receive their certificate. I was a stickler for details at the time and had several irate inmates on my heels when they did not receive their certificate. I saw it as an interesting piece of paper but some viewed it as an accomplishment. Those inmates didn’t come to each session but they came to enough hoping for a certificate.

An extra hour of TV can be viewed as a means to escape hardship. It not only motivates the inmate personally if he wants to watch TV but he also becomes responsible for his fellow inmates sharing the same pleasure. If you are the one who fails to ensure the TV time – you have to answer to your fellow inmates. Extra TV time at OCI was the reward for smooth unit operations. If we failed cleanliness we lost the privilege.

When I spoke at Elgin Middlesex Detention Centre (EMDC) it was in an unused gymnasium. With the purchase of a basketball well behaved inmates could gain five minutes to themselves in the gym. The supervised solitude will diffuse tensions and for those active some testosterone could be expended.

Access to freedom is a tool of reform. To deny it is punishment enough and to measure levels of relief provides the opportunity to create co-operation. If inmates co-operate they can witness their own importance and the importance of others.

Privileges provide some hope and in terms of treatment the optimism alone speeds progress. Jail is often hopeless having little to do or little to look forward to. If an inmate has hope they may be less prone to violence.

When each inmate has a duty for the unit they can learn responsibility, gain a sense of self efficacy and a sense of belonging.

When the lower inmate is able to advance it is a signal to those who think they are better that all have value. If everyone has value it dissolves the hierarchy.

The use of protective custody (PC) and general population (GP) creates safety through segregation but also animosity. Inmates are within reach of certain inmates through communication and connections so safety can be compromised. The GPs considered those in PC to be rats, thieves and sex offenders. As such all were looked down on and in situations where segregation fails those in protective custody are in danger. At OCI there was no PC or GP and as such the hierarchy it creates was non-existent. In some form it enhanced the safety of the institution.

I was in PC for much of my incarceration. I ended up in cells with GP, they saw me and many would know what unit I was on. We were transported together and would see each other as we accessed the yard. Any prisoner is reachable.

I saw several fights in PC and was a witness to a beating so in my estimation it is already failing to be what its name insinuates.

At OCI there was no PC. The only segregation was between new arrivals in the assessment area and the offenders already classified to units. When I was in regular jails the threat of violence coated most days. OCI was safe because non-violence was a condition of the privilege of inhabiting humane, respectful and progressive living conditions.

No one comes clean in dirty water.

We need to dismantle how inmates gain their self-esteem and replace it with socially acceptable measures. We want them to gain their esteem by behaving not by bullying and manipulating. We want them to gain their esteem by cooperating and contributing.

Portions of my mental health and corrections journey included the use of privileges. When medicine and the law intertwine privilege can be a level of security and is progressive. Inmates that are a risk can at any point be placed in the most secure setting and inmates who are doing well can be advanced.

OCI and the forensic hospital in St. Thomas (formally Regional Mental Health Care St. Thomas, now Southwest Centre for Forensic Mental Health Care) were the safest and most humane of the institutions I experienced. OCI had a zero tolerance policy regarding violence. OCI had many amenities worth behaving for. If a prisoner violated a certain rule they could be transferred back to a detention centre. Detention centres are the harshest to be in and have less comforts, opportunities and treatment.

Another rule at OCI was participation in programming and treatment. We had Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, General Addictions and an array of spiritual services administered by permanent staff and supported by volunteers. Participation in spiritual programming was widespread, though voluntary. It was a change of setting or a break to the monotony for some but for others seeds were planted. Personally, spirituality was one of the most important aspects of my rehabilitation and recovery, something that I didn’t have when I entered the system.

More importance could have been placed on programming. It is unlikely the rooms I saw at Toronto South for programs such as AA will work. There is no anonymity with windows into the room and the children’s chairs are humiliating in themselves. If programming can be mandatory after sentencing all sentenced inmates could begin with AA. Those without substance problems will learn about and appreciate the struggles of those who do. Participation in programming is an escape from the monotony and is often embraced for that alone.

Volunteers are a link to the “outside” and I found self-worth in the fact of their presence. Volunteers can be a link while incarcerated but connections can carry into the community providing continued supports when the prisoner is released. Most of the programs at OCI were maintained by volunteers.

A six week exposure to anger management will not benefit every inmate and others would resist but numerous others would benefit.

Spirituality

I would be little of what I am today were it not for being ministered to throughout my journey. I gained my faith within institutions and if I have nothing else this would be enough. If an inmate has faith they face and overcome what they might not otherwise. We should not push religion on this group but if we make access to spirituality attractive the nectar will stick to some and change lives.

Early Intervention

I am the million dollar man. I have spent three years in correctional facilities, two years hospitalized and five years monitored in the community. The five years I spent incarcerated amount to approximately $550,000 dollars and that gets added to the cost of my community treatment. In my estimation it would have been cheaper to have a worker follow me from a young age and it would have been advantageous for me and the system to have had intervention before I cost over $300/day. A mental health worker paid $60,000/year could have spent over 18 years seeing me for four hours a day. That same mental health worker could spend one hour a day with me for 70 years.

I think if there was one person who was assigned to my mental health journey I may have avoided the courts. I didn’t receive the intensive treatment I required until I was in my thirties and there were periods I was not in receipt of treatment or oversight.

I sometimes wonder if that time and money was spent when I was younger if I would have avoided everything.

Educational Supports

In my experience many inmates struggled with various degrees of illiteracy. I personally assisted a couple of inmates with reading and writing letters. It is sad to sit next to someone who hasn’t the ability to experience such an integral part of existence. I’m not sure how these adults navigated the educational system without procuring the ability to read.

When an inmate is incarcerated it presents the state with another opportunity to teach literacy. Possibly volunteers could be called on to assist in passing on this basic skill. Literacy could be conditional for those who need it and it could be encouraged and advanced through the issuance of simple privileges.

Inmates could be called on to assist each other in literacy creating cooperation and self-worth in both teacher and student. We can poke and prod this segment of society to become gainfully employed and contribute but illiteracy is a hindrance at best. These individuals are not stupid and could embrace society and normalcy more easily if they could navigate the written word. A criminal record is difficult to overcome but illiteracy is an obstacle that will only be moved by education.

Inmates need access to the raw materials for self-improvement. I took Bible correspondence courses during portions of my incarceration. I don’t see why these voluntary programs couldn’t include secular members of the community. One suggestion may be teacher colleges including marking inmate attempts at equivalencies. My exposure to schooling while incarcerated included a woman who came weekly to the Sarnia jail. I was quite psychotic and she assisted me beyond academics. While at OCI I mainly attempted to gain a typing credit with a teacher who worked half days. While we have prisoners in our grasp we may as well mold them. What if for those who have failed the public system we now take the time to instill knowledge and the ability to gain skills; skills that pay taxes and build communities. Lack of education and skills may not lead to criminality but they anchor most inmates to the cycle of crime.

If I am a better person I can’t help but be a better citizen. I was twice confined to Sarnia Detention Centre and I saw several familiar faces on my return. Many of the guards were familiar with about a third of the detainees. The repeat offender may hold less promise of participation and success but there are few beyond hope.

Better citizens add to public safety rather than perpetually compromising it. If we are paying to house these inmates we might as well do something with the housing and food we provide. There would be less educators teaching in other countries if they could safely do so within corrections. Make it a paid internship. They gain experience and the province economical labour. Obviously I’m just spitballing but there must be ways to institute inmate improvement in an economically feasible fashion. Even at an expense it might prove profitable in the long term. I understand fiscal responsibility but if a government doesn’t invest in the longer term they will balance a broken society.

Some inmates will not amount to much on the street. Corrections could incorporate measures to change this.

Uniforms

I can identify a guard as being similar to myself when they are out of uniform. Many inmates associate and resent the uniform regardless of who it is on. I can imagine a guard as having a life outside of the jail. If an inmate can view a correctional officer as more of a person they are better able to identify with them. Prisoners recognize that other prisoners have relationships and family but a guard is a guard to them. Just as the guard judges us as criminals we judge them as something even less. There is a barrier between guard and inmate which limits the amount of respect that passes between the two. If guards become caseworkers their assistance will be recognized as that. They will still be the ones with the keys but they will unlock the potential that lies within many inmates.

This places more value and respect on them in my opinion. When we see the uniform it is a reminder of where we are, when see clothes on a person, they are exactly that. Clothes on a person. If a correctional officer is also recognized as a person not just an authority figure the respect and cross identification between inmate and guard might create a more secure and safe environment for both guards and inmates. If a CO becomes someone I can know, they become someone who can set an example for me. I will not mimic that which I despise.

The majority of the justice system wears a uniform. If I was dealt harshly by someone in a robe or bruised by a badge, your uniform is part of the same and if I am looking for any revenge it might often do. You become part of why I may be suffering. The pain, stress or confusion involved with the system is taken out on uniforms. Without the uniform the officer becomes less a beacon of my plight. If most prisoners have no respect for the uniform why are they worn?

At OCI the COs often wore street clothes. It was the first time I fully recognized them as quite like me. I was wearing an orange uniform which offered enough of a distinction between us. They were as visible among us and in the same sense stood out in a different way. I saw each officer in both street clothes and uniforms and my respect did not differ.

At OCI we were encouraged and at times mandated to speak with our correctional offer/caseworker. The person with the most potential of being a positive influence is the correctional officer. In a regular correctional facility to be seen speaking too much with a correctional officer creates a dangerous situation. Other inmates can infer that they are being “ratted on”.

Keep in mind there is usually an underlying mistrust of most correctional officers.

Corrections and Mental Health

Mental illness is an illness

Mental health services in the community are not always accessible because of funding and or stigma. When an individual with diabetes enters the justice system he or she will have access to medicine. Their blood will be tested as required etc. When an individual with a mental illness enters the justice system they should have equal access to treatment for a medically identifiable illness.

When I was found Not Criminally Responsible (NCR) my treatment became law. Equal access is the right thing and would be a healthy blow to stigma. Not many people lose the ability to perceive reality and are found NCR. I do believe mental illness is enmeshed in many other crimes. We need only consider crimes to which alcohol or drugs were a contributing factor.

We can still punish the offender but it makes the most sense to treat them. I saw a fellow rearrested within several hours of his release. He was an addict. He was an intelligent upbeat and humourous person but he was a prisoner on both sides of the bars. If he entered a 30-day drug or alcohol treatment program as he served his sentence he may not stay sober but it might help. These are fallen citizens who may never vote but whose hand we must grasp because we will be called to account for knowing that hand was there.

We do not tell those with diabetes they must suffer because they are a criminal and we mustn’t say it to those with depression, schizophrenia or obsessive compulsive disorder. If there is any link between mental illness and the crime we have cause and duty to treat the illness.

Assessment and treatment of mental illness and addictions in jail

We don’t have to build hospitals to treat a significant number of citizens with mental health challenges. The correctional system provides an opportunity to assess and treat mental illnesses which are becoming too costly to ignore. Mandatory participation in treatment is easily enforced. Individuals are observable 24/7 to better assess and treat. They are being fed and housed already. OCI in Brampton would be suitable with minor modification to deal with mentally ill inmates. Mentally ill offenders should be treated regardless. To not treat them is costly, irresponsible and contributes to stigma. We can’t deny a prisoners access to therapeutic measures and proper mental health care.

Even a 30-day sentence would provide enough time to assess. Community supports and conditions could be incorporated through the probation system. Probation is often a three year duration which might provide the teeth to institute and carry on with treatment beyond the facility. While I was in the hospital forensic system I could be called on at any time to submit to drug and alcohol testing. If a dirty urine sample sends you back to jail it is reason to remain clean. If we conscript participation in community programs such as Alcoholics Anonymous and can keep an inmate clean for three years I suspect it would contribute to public safety and provide a sober person to incorporate back into the community.

If one in five probation officers is versed in mental health they could administer to community treatment adherence and be a regular assessment tool.

We owe it to our communities at least to ensure that when an inmate is released whether they suffer from schizophrenia or addiction that they have been treated.

If my mental illness was better assessed and treated while I was at OCI I may have not entered the forensic system. The year I was there would have been ample to get a better handle on my illness.

Accommodations can be minimal for any offender but the mentally ill offender requires the opportunity of solitude and a degree of mercy and compassion.

Segregation

Segregation should be a last resort – not an only option.

Segregation is used as punishment for misdeeds in jail – but an extension of a prisoner’s sentence would be more impactful. Even those who do well in jail look forward to and count on release. Many would not risk further time. Those that do are a problem prisoner and could be managed otherwise. Most do not experience segregation so its threat is obscure. To be given more time is comprehendible as a threat.

I often lament the use of segregation but my personal growth, in part, sprung from the deprivation I experienced. Deprivation gives rise to insights otherwise difficult to obtain. It is punishment and can be used as such where appropriate but the mentally ill offender is better served in a different setting. Seclusion can alleviate acute symptoms in the short term but is detrimental in the long term.

From a prisoner’s perspective justice and corrections is a maze no one in particular cares if you make it through. If I can see a correction officer’s purpose as that of assisting me it lessens animosity. An inmate may resent someone having authority over them but if the correctional officer is helping that too can be overcome.

Corrections should be an avenue of reform and rehabilitation.

Diversion and Community Supports

Mental Health Courts and Diversion are necessary but mainly tinsel if they do not bring about the services and treatment necessary to in fact divert the offender from further contact with the justice system. Had my diversion lead to something remotely like the hospital forensic system in terms of treatment and compliance I may have never entered the correctional system. The money spent could have been a better placed $30,000 hospital visit.

I believe it is in the public’s interest to administer more in community support to individuals on a mental health journey. If I was prescribed a worker to follow up on me I would have more likely been truly diverted from the justice system. It could have been a daily phone call. If it was a person I already had a therapeutic relationship with I would have trusted enough to convey what was happening to me and I would have a ready contact for how best to get help. If I could access supports through this individual it would coordinate care and supervision of that care. One person could have access to my complete history to best determine what was presently appropriate.

Portions of my incarceration were inappropriate and at times no one was aware of my challenges. People who are psychotic/deemed NCR, or otherwise acutely ill, should be in a hospital setting as they would be for an acute physical illness.

Hospital Forensic System

When I look back on my mental health experiences I see compassionate well trained professionals but some of it seemed haphazard. The forensic system was the best worst thing to happen to me. It was the exception. It has flaws but it was the first time I was exposed to intense and comprehensive treatment.

I can understand not wanting people occupying hospital beds but it makes no sense to provide the care when a person commits a crime – the care should take place before it happens.

Accessible and proper mental health care could reduce the numbers in the forensic system. If an illness is being monitored and managed it is less likely to result in some of the tragedies we hear about. Forensic patients are not punished so the fact that their recidivism rate is so low can mainly be linked to the fact that deterrence lies in treatment. If treatment can be used to deter future conflict it only makes sense to provide it as early as possible. For some it is far too late after the crime.

If we continue to do as budgets allow and be fiscally responsible, we will not progress. In the short term it appears as fiscally responsible but when I consider the repetitive nature of my mental health journey and of the many others I have witnessed it is only truly fiscally responsible to properly address the problems to begin with.

With the use of Assertive Community Treatment (ACT) teams, those at risk can be managed in their own homes with little call on the taxpayer. Community treatment is more therapeutic and it allows the client to remain enmeshed in their families and communities; both assist in immeasurable ways and further reduce leaning on the taxpayer.

If we could compare a typical mental health journey to a boat with a leak – what I experienced was like taping up the hole. When I was in crisis I had a piece of tape placed on my life and I was returned to sea. It is expensive to take the boat from the water and properly fix the damage but until that happens we will be buying tape and citizens will suffer individually and collectively. Tape doesn’t fix the hole.

NCR offenders will never be eliminated but they can be reduced if comprehensive treatment is applied to those most vulnerable. Most of the forensic patient stories I am familiar with included the application of mental health services before the offence. If these individuals are coming into conflict with the law after and or during the application of mental health services it points to a gap.

Early Education

In my youth psychiatrists were secrets. I was taught how mountains were formed but not how emotions are formed.

I believe we can convey to youth what stigma is, how it is perpetuated, its consequences and we can challenge them to be the generation to eradicate it.

In the 70s and 80s we had exposure to some health curriculum. We had dental hygienists come into the classroom to teach us how to brush our teeth but I don’t recall information about the mental side of my health. A mental health worker could stand in front of the same class to inform youth about mental health.

If we are exposed to the correct information at a young age we are able to filter future truths. Stigma is an attitude attached to distorted thoughts which are anchored in misinformation. If the proper information is presented much of the fear which feeds stigma will be eliminated. If the emotion of fear is challenged by knowledge it can be lessened so when we are exposed to mental illness in our neighbourhoods and communities we can be more rational about what we are witnessing and those experiencing it will be more apt to find help. If fear is eliminated it leaves room for respect, compassion and empathy.

We can teach youth mental hygiene.

If youth are exposed to various mental health professionals and other knowledgeable citizens they will know where to turn if they or a friend need assistance. With education they may recognize their own difficulties and seek early treatment. When mental health is talked about in the classroom it is talked about around dinner tables. Youth can carry information to people who may have passed by the pamphlets.

If a mental health worker is a regular visitor they become a familiar face for someone who may need mental health services in the community. The mental health worker can be the link between our schools and mental health services in the community.

Most of my exposure to mental health information has come from experience and self-education. Knowledge doesn’t alter symptoms but it relieves the stigma which is at times worse.

I do not think we would create a generation of mental health hypochondriacs any more than a Heart and Stroke Foundation presentation would lead to strokes.

I believe mental health education can be presented in a meaningful and interesting fashion. The more that is done to inform people about mental illness the more stigma is combated. If stigma is reduced it creates a more therapeutic environment for all mental health consumers. The results will spill from our classrooms into our homes and communities. If a gate is left open something will get through. Education is a gate that needs to be opened to mental health. When we educate our youth we educate society.

Lack of mental health education perpetuates stigma. If a government makes mental health education a priority it brings mental health itself to the forefront. It is a signal to all citizens that mental health is a priority and that your approach as a government is to expose mental illness for what it is. Making mental health education a priority fights stigma.

It is achievable to create a generation which spreads accurate information and the understanding, compassion and empathy that it enables.

To not educate our youth has costs as well. People resist seeking treatment because of the stigma. Illnesses progress untreated increasing social and economic costs. The cost in terms of suicide alone is incalculable. If we can get people to seek help early the chaos that springs from illness can be managed.

Mental health knowledge strengthens the fabric of communities by incorporating the legitimacy of mental illness. If my illness is understood and accepted I can contribute in a more meaningful way and find support in the community. Understanding undermines the isolation of mental illness.

26.2 Miles

Posted on March 6, 2014 by brettbatten

I was reading an article on the popularity of running. I used to run. I started questioning the health benefits when I realized sidewalks are next to roads. It’s exhausting, literally. I gave it up when I rolled over the hood of an automobile making one of those rolling stops. I don’t have a problem with running but I do have a problem running. Cardiovascularly I’m a mess. Thank God for evolution. If I had to chase down my dinner I’d be eating snails. Running doesn’t sit well with my addiction to cigarettes either. Please don’t call me a hypocrite; it’s already on my driver’s licence.

I started thinking about marathons. It seems everyone has a 26.2 sticker on their car. It’s actually dangerous as I am obliged to pass them. I find it a little illogical that people use trains, planes and automobiles to run in a race. It’s like parking lots at health clubs.

Couldn’t we run 13.1 miles from our front door and return with the same admirable time to brag about? Nike would choke without somewhere to dump their advertising shirts and bags but possibly our grandchildren wouldn’t if we left the airplane at home. We could pin a paper towel to our backs with a number and I doubt people would question the validity of the 26.2 sticker. I’m guessing half of them are left from previous vehicle owners anyway. Couldn’t we pretend instead of being pretentious?

The Boston Marathon had just under 27 000 participants in 2013 and they expect 36 000 this April. I couldn’t uncover how many are actually Boston residents but last year 96 countries were represented along with 56 states and territories. I calculated almost 4000 entries from countries outside of the U.S. They included Russia, the United Arab Emirates, Iceland and 209 from Italy. Are there not roads in these strange lands? I’m not sure how to calculate the jet fuel but I can see some of it in the clear blue skies above my home.

Running can be an admirable addiction but when you run until your toenails fall off and you have to tape your nipples so they don’t wear and bleed from your shirt rubbing, I wonder. Maybe I’m just not that healthy.

I realize these events are great for charities but do we need to use trains, planes and automobiles to raise funds for these worthy causes? Couldn’t we use our SMART phones and have a telethon? It sounds like marathon and it may even make more cents. I guess it’s like real estate…location, location, location.

I love marathoners; my brother is one. Thankfully he doesn’t read my blog either.

Tomato

Posted on February 17, 2014 by brettbatten

When I was allowed off the forensic unit I lived in, one of my accompanied destinations became the greenhouse. It was always a pleasure to be in the greenhouse. It was connected to the hospital so it was like Eden at the end of a hallway. I`m not sure how I didn’t bump into anything on early occasions as I glanced through windows each with a new view. New horizons. I tended many plants and grew many of my own. I can recall the warmth of the area and the light but some of the experience was lost on me. In some sense of reality the dimensions of the building itself added considerable square footage to my world. I don’t recall the scheduling of visits but I wouldn’t be surprised if I mentioned to my therapist that the plants were due for some water.

I could forget myself there without the cameras and as a good friend might say avail myself of meaningful and fulfilling occupation. I was doing something that didn’t have to be shuffled and dealt. I was blind to the balm but can remember the face of the staff member who applied it.

In the spring we reclaimed an area of weeds and weeds. I planted some tomatoes there that I had started from seed. I remember one sunny day taking the shortcut across the grounds as we were only there for tending the tomatoes outside. There were three of us. A clinician and a female patient who was newer to the unit. She seemed a little bewildered and was very quiet. There was one ripe tomato and I held it long in my hand like a hungry man and handed it to this woman. I watched her tear into it like an apple. It is a little hard to enjoy a tomato from three feet away but in this case it was a little hard not to. I smiled as she devoured it. I wanted that tomato and it may have even been a first but I`m glad I gave it away. Before I gave it to her I didn’t know her hunger.

Herstory

Posted on February 15, 2014 by brettbatten

I was at a funeral this afternoon. I was there as a personal comforter and had never met the departed. One never knows what to say at a funeral and this opportunity was more so for me. I was sorry for their loss though I didn’t even know what they lost.

I learned the departed’s age, knew what she looked like as a young woman and saw the flower in her hair everyone seemed to be mentioning, in more recent photographs. I learned about her family history and stories from her life.

I met the departed in the voices of a daughter, a grandson, a granddaughter, a niece, a friend and a minister. Her spirit trembled in their words. She floated from their thoughts and hearts even into me; a stranger. If I could be touched without a real glance at her what might have she been like alive? There was no casket but she moved through the room and down the cheeks of several sitting in front of me.

The person I was accompanying had never been to a funeral and was a little unsure of herself. I didn’t give her any advice on what to say or where to sit. She figured it all out as she sat next to me wiping away tears as well. Tears are always appropriate and a funeral is a good opportunity to feel someone one last time or for the first.

Touch

Posted on February 10, 2014 by brettbatten

I sat in on a presentation on sexuality among mental health patients. The whole topic is a little like making love to a Porcupine. There are many points to consider. I wasn’t as fortunate as some patients but there was certainly sexuality among us. I can remember smoking and drinking coffee while people rolled on a blanket in front of me kissing. I enjoyed the coffee more. There were certain stairwells that were considered intimate no matter the weather. We were also blessed with a well treed knoll on the hospital property. We called it “Pecker Hill.” Even when I was not well the naming was evident and amusing. I know of one poor individual who didn’t quite make it to the hill and found ecstasy among the long grass not far away but apparently far enough.

We can laugh or shake a finger but I was without an intimate encounter for 7 years. I don’t know about the 7 year itch but I wallowed in the 7 year rash. Had the opportunity presented itself to me I’m not sure I would have made it to the long grass.

The World Health Organization defines sexual health as a state of physical, mental and social well-being in relation to sexuality. Being on a locked ward for me was just that. If my footsteps had boundaries you can imagine the same on my sexuality.

I can remember being on the Forensic Assessment Unit on a vacation from jail. One day I walked by the common area and saw a hairdresser giving a patient a haircut. I was months without a trim and was eager to find out how this all worked. I paced by a few times and finally asked if I needed an appointment or money both of which I was without. I needed neither and when I sat down I was astonished by being touched. Usually you check how much hair is falling on the floor but each time my scalp was touched that’s all I could focus on. All my visits for months were from behind glass and my fellow prisoners were not known for hugging.

If we are placing individuals in situations where touch is unlikely it becomes imperative to introduce a healthy replacement. Some in the psychiatric community are unlikely to encounter touch because of their symptoms and or resulting circumstances.

Part of sexuality is a connection. Consider what it would be like to go for months and years without being touched. Even those of us who have the benefit of touch can recognize its power and importance when we visit a massage therapist. The social, mental and physical benefits can only translate into improved mental health and overall well being.

Segregation; the Hole is deprivation of everything. I was psychotic for most of this deprivation but pulled an important truth from the experience. I had a cheap French/English dictionary in my pillowcase. I wrote a note from the Hole to one of the guards who were bilingual. In choppy French I wrote the following:

“I need love and touch I beg you, more.

I’m not crazy or madness, truly yours

I’m tough and strong angel.

Please mention it nay not what

In any manner that push me by heart and has your friendship; we shake on it.

Please mention it nay not what.”

Ten Cent Shoes

Posted on December 19, 2013 by brettbatten

I recognize the fact that many of you have better things to do on Christmas Day, so I will speak out of turn. Experience has made me morose and more but I hope you can find some piece of truth or the heart of the Day in my musings.

Christmas in many jails is like any other day. The timing is impeccable as is the monotony. We tend to not watch the TV specials so it even echoes yesterday. There is nothing to signal what rattles your very soul. There are no funny Christmas presents and if orange is festive you would throw up on Easter.

The most painful part of incarceration for me was to surrender my fatherhood like it was as worthless as my watch and clothes. We are numbers and last names; nothing more.

On more than one occasion the flavour of the season was delivered by the Salvation Army. Bars prevented the hug I longed for but candies and such were a welcome amusement; humble gifts. I was more satiated by their presence. Who wants to go caroling in a jail? I listen to hours of music each day, it is my morning coffee but seared in my mind are the notes coming from the accordion on the other side of the bars. Strangers can help to mend a torn heart. I was a father without the whiff of my children and visions of them tearing into wrapping paper laid waste to my strength. I don’t know about most of you but I have many Christmas memories. Imagine letting them all loose when you’re in shackles that very day. There is only anguish at each passing vision. I was disinfected of any meaning despite what swirled in my mind. It was like being a Goldfish. There was all that stuff beyond but the best you could hope for was a sore nose.

The first Christmas I spent in jail was in the Stratford Gaol. It was built in the 1800’s with nothing much more than stone. The season was colder than I was accustomed to. We hooded ourselves with blankets as the stone shone cold on our bodies. Our frigid defence was rendered useless as we were ordered to leave blankets in our cells as they were a security issue. Fire with Fire.

I soon decided Christmas was going to be delivered even if compassion was held up with customs. I had a weakness for sweets while incarcerated. When I was in hospital I would waken in the night and eat a black licorice. I would waken in the morning with a piece or two on my pillow and lost half a tooth soon after but it was comfort. My family has a taste for black licorice and I must have found a connection when I was without them. Sweets were also a connection to the outside while in jail. A “snickers” tastes better than a “snickers” on the outside…trust me.

I always had a couple of chocolate bars either near me or in me. I would ration them. To eat a whole chocolate bar was like throwing away several moments of ecstasy. I ordered enough chocolate bars using the system used to procure street food and product on canteen. On Christmas Eve my cellmate turned into an Elf and ran diversion as we were being locked up. As he pretended to use the toilet I filled my pockets with chocolate bars and scurried from cell to cell and gave each man a chocolate bar. I shook hands with my own pain and glanced into the same infinitely sad eyes but there was a sparkle. It was Santa in an orange jumpsuit wearing ten cent shoes.

P.S. Thanks Mom for the canteen money.

Volunteers

Posted on September 11, 2013 by brettbatten

It was my honour to be the guest speaker at Elgin Middlesex Detention Center this evening. It was a dinner and awards banquet for the many fine people who volunteer there.

For me it was like entering jail for the first time in a way. Everything was pleasant but I had never been in the front door. It was full of the same uncertainty. What’s beyond that door? How long before this one opens?

The gymnasium was decorated and had a theme; there was live music and great food. A lot of time and enthusiasm went into honouring the volunteers. When I went up to speak I felt somewhat small. Prior to my words, awards were given for years served. Thirty-years are a tough act to follow.

I had intended to write some words specific to the volunteers but had a speech land in my lap weeks before. A family friend returned a stack of letters I had written years ago from a correctional facility. I spoke words I wrote years ago with a voice I hope conveyed the same gratitude.

October 19^th 2002

Dear friends,

I am including a copy of a speech I delivered. I ended up speaking in front of 200 people. The Volunteer dinner was an even bigger deal than I imagined. It was all amazing to me. I was among people who don’t dress in orange but more importantly didn’t seem to be bothered that I did. I was eating olives, deep fried veggies, bacon wrapped pineapple and sausages. It was a smorgasbord of special foods I won’t see again for half a year. They even brought in the Honour Guard. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I first saw them. I thought it was six OPP (Ontario Provincial Police) wading through the reception area.

How is it that a jail becomes a place of contemplation, transformation and insight? Volunteers.

What astounds or confounds me most about volunteers is that we are not judged. You give your time to the barely sober, the unsuccessful, the lost, the poor, the uneducated and the lonely; there are no exceptions. You include us in your lives and share your experience, strength and hope with people who sometimes have none.

Why do you give of yourselves? Is it some moral duty or obligation? I can only guess it is a form of love; a love and respect for yourselves, a love and commitment to your community and love and compassion for us here at Ontario Correctional Institute.

Volunteers break our isolation from the world and give us a glimpse of what we can look forward to. You provide a link with normalcy and the outside as well as with reality and the future.

Collectively what goes on here is amazing. Lives are saved and many more are changed to a point where we can progress in health within society. What you do here has no ending. You will never see how I am with my children or how I treat family and friends. To those of you who have spent years as volunteers I am very much inspired. To have not grown tired of our stories, to see the same attitudes once again and yet walk forward with hearts to help. As a group we are in dire need of an example – thank you for providing one.

With your help I am not ashamed of myself or discouraged by my mistakes. I can see that these mistakes have been an important factor in my life`s progress. I would have loved to forgo some of my journey. I would have gladly turned away from my problems and denied their existence. You have helped me confront myself, to see myself. To see the warts on the man I was and the light on the man I am becoming.

By talking and sharing I heal. You make my experiences more real by listening to them, and give me something to contrast them with. You lead me beyond myself. Equally important you show me. You show me what it means to give, to be human. You lead me with your example. I can see now that my purpose in life is collective, it is community not individual. You have helped me with a new view of life; insight by insight.

I`m not sure how you view yourselves but I think a principle of physics applies here. It is that the greatest effects come from the smallest causes. We are in critical moments of our lives and some days everything hangs on what to you may appear to be a mere nothing but from which great things spring. Volunteers are the hidden sources, the smallest causes. I have had the good fortune to find my own guilt and have gained a sense of spiritual dignity from it; a sense of acceptance. I now believe the saying `Nobody can fall so low unless he has great depth. I am inspired to do my best.

I have some peace in here that I never had on the outside and am free in ways I never have been before. How is it I can find this in jail? Volunteers.

The greatest gift to give a man is to give him Grace to live again.

Thank you for your time; thank you for your efforts; thank you for your Grace.

Link

Solitary Confinement

Please read the included link regarding the use of solitary confinement in prisons. I can’t speak about prisons as I have only been incarcerated in jails. Most were Detention Centers. They are basically holding facilities for people before the courts or awaiting sentencing. My experience was that there was little done to, for or about me. Both prisons and jails have areas for prisoner segregation. I have heard it referred to as solitary confinement, the hole, administrative segregation and the digger. When I raised my voice to one of the jail nurses at being denied a medication that my mental health hinged on I was asked if I wanted to go to the digger. “What’s the digger?” “The hole, you were in it your first night.” I understood the threat when it was referred to as the hole. I was quite sane on that first visit to the hole and had my fill of it in mere hours. My next visits were while I was psychotic. I can’t substantiate my length of stay as a whole but I have a couple of letters which refer to five day stays. I was moved between the medical cells and the three isolation cells. My sense of time during this period is basically nonexistent. While in the hole I was subjected to a 24 hour light. I would awaken at different times and be surprised to find it was night. I was for certain periods oblivious to the hour, day of the week or date. I do measure my exposure to this period of isolation as a season.

The medical cells were larger or the bars and their spaces included something beyond. The hole was near 5 feet by eight feet with all concrete minus the toilet in the corner and the solid steel door with a window smaller than a fist so it couldn’t be punched out. My view beyond that was a concrete wall as the hall turned leading to another steel door. The guards sat 15 feet beyond that point. Silence. The only noise was the industrial flush of your cold, hard, seatless toilet. You might catch a piece of a face but mainly you see hands as your meals are slid through a slot in the door. Faces are common until they become uncommon. To see eyes was an interesting phenomenon when my only reflection came from said toilet. Isolation made navigating simple requests next to impossible. It seemed the jail bureaucracy barely made it to the area. In a regular area you could call a guard. In isolation you could ask for a request form. I was unable to use a phone, had little access to a shower and my mattress was removed from my cell during the day.

Corrections Canada’s response to my psychosis was isolation. My psychiatric care often consisted of taking my temperature and weight which though important are usually not correlated to psychosis. When I was isolated in the medical cells another inmate had a broken hand from a jail fight. He wore a cast which I surmised to be beyond the abilities of most guards. He was isolated with a bed, the ability to interact, an area telephone and an area shower. He also received the best modern medicine has to offer. As a society most would be aghast had he been denied medical technology, treatment or emergency care. This is my question: why when an inmate has a “mental” condition do we prescribe administrative segregation with its 24 hour light and total deprivation outside of nourishment and sanitation. If only we could distill such treatment into a pill. Is this discrimination or is it merely stigma on its hind legs?

A dog runs in circles after being left alone for a few hours. Are we not as social? I think it’s time to let mental illness out of isolation. It’s the least we can do. An easy solution shouldn’t be considered the only one when it is nowhere near best medical practices.

Realigious

Posted on August 30, 2013 by brettbatten

I was looking over some jail letters I wrote years ago. My mother, an aunt and a family friend saved all the letters I wrote during my confinements. It’s interesting to read my observations and perspectives. I saw much more than bars when I was behind them. I learned lessons that the same time in school may never have yielded. I wrote the word “parity” and its definition on January 16, 2002. “A state of being equal and a theory in physics that any substance and its mirror image counterpart have the same physical properties.” I would like to argue against this theory as any mirror I stand in front of has less hair and more weight than I know I posses but I see its truth. A rock in front of a mirror is nothing more or less than itself. It has cracks and has no reason to deny them. It will not lose stature as a rock if it reflects flaws.

I am not always pleased with my receding hairline but it is mine. I can still smile with it, I can carry a conversation; it really doesn’t take away from who or what I am. When I can recognize myself as I am; full of warts but fine thanks just the same I can be who I am. It is more reflection and less deception when I can see myself as light and dark. When we see our true substance and the mirror image as the same it in fact creates “parity” itself. “The state of being equal.” If I see myself as I truly am there is no maneuvering into being better or worse than others. We are all the same.

There is little need to be anything in solitary confinement; the Hole. Whatever you are is all you live with. There is no need to say or do anything to alter your position as there is no one to posture for. I often crawled about my small space scratching notes on my papers and upon the walls and floor. My life had more importance than any time I was a free man. There was nothing to fear in nothingness. What would fester in your mind if it had nothing to occupy it? What if there was no phone, computer or company? Who and what do you connect with when you are the one and only for days, weeks or was it months? When it was just me most of my thoughts had spiritual significance. Realigious experiences and perspectives are often a symptom of mental illness. Maybe some are but wouldn’t that make God crazy?

Crackerjacks

Posted on August 26, 2013 by brettbatten

When I was in primary school, part of my path was lined with huge old Horse Chestnut trees. Even before they fell to the ground I would stop and see if any nuts were ripe enough to knock down. It mattered not whether I was on my way to school or returning home; I would spend timeless minutes stomping on the prickly fruit, doing my best to expose the smooth, shiny nut within.

In some ways I am still the little boy. Through lessons learned I often watch trees and keep an eye for their fruit. Today it is often a discarded piece of wood for my lathe from something fallen. I don’t fill my pockets with chestnuts but I do carry three or four marbles. I see a similar currency now as I did then. My marbles and chestnuts are worthless but they have purchased hours of amusement for generations.

With my brothers and friends we devised or inherited a game. We would dig a hole in the center of the nut and knot a string through. They became war clubs and we would surrender each to the blows of another. The chestnut that didn’t crack was the victor. Sometimes it was the one laid on the ground and other times it was the one swung downwards. Resilience is a funny thing.

When I see chestnuts as an adult I am still drawn to pull the shiny nut from the prickly shell. Like the Crackerjacks I ate those days; the prize is on the inside.

“Shotgun”

Posted on July 7, 2013 by brettbatten

I remember when I was finally transferred from jail to the forensic hospital. As I exited the jail handcuffed and shackled I was at first struck by the open space. Being transferred is usually pleasant and a little like watching a movie. You see and hear things you are unaccustomed to. Green grass or the sound of tires on pavement. There were several jail nurses sitting at a table outside on break. I bowed my head and thanked them. They did what they could.

I climbed into the kennel of the transfer van. It was basically like being a bean stuck to the inside of an empty tin can. I didn’t have much of a view and can recall no landmarks. I knew I was heading to St. Thomas but did not recognize the fact until we parked.

After I left college and my lifelong dream of being a Conservation Officer, I applied to several police forces. At that time there were many more interested in police work than were ever hired. I did have one interview. It was with the St. Thomas Police Force.

I should have been more specific when I prayed to ride in a police vehicle in St. Thomas. I should have specified it was the front seat I was interested in. I’m pretty good at reading people and I sensed that the two officers who transferred me would be unappreciative of me yelling “Shotgun.”

Resilience

Posted on July 5, 2013 by brettbatten

What is resilience? Is it an ability to withstand something intolerable? Is it a manifestation of stubbornness? Is it some family strength passed through generations? Is it simply survival? When we hear of what others have endured we need to keep in mind that there was no other choice. To have not withstood would have been an end.

I have withstood certain events as we all have. I had the advantage and disadvantage of being mentally ill. My perception of certain conditions would not be the same as someone looking in on me.

Thousands of years ago I suspect resilience was part of daily living. Jimmy didn’t run to his dad because Joey called him a name; he hit him over the head and took the dead rabbit from his hand. It’s probably best things have changed. I might be the guy short a rabbit. I sometimes wonder if there isn’t merit in the fight. I’m not talking about violence but the endurance of something intolerable.

I have learned things I never would have known were it not for pain. At the time of my trials I only wanted an end. Today I look back on some of my experiences and it provides cause for not fearing what lies ahead.

The 5 Star Hotel

Posted on June 26, 2013 by brettbatten

There was an article in the local paper speaking to the issue of some kinks in the new Southwest Centre for Forensic Mental Health. I won’t speak specifically to the electronic issues of the new facility. I don’t see it as newsworthy to report on a building that has problems upon start up. Don’t they all? It may be alarming to staff to have a patient in an area they shouldn’t be in but I doubt if it is a first. As a member of the public and having the benefit of a tour I can see exit from the actual building being unlikely. The staff is trained to deal with these situations and they have the backup of hospital security. St. Thomas itself has a police force and the Ontario Provincial Police Detachment is less than a kilometer away. Making it far would again be unlikely. I wonder what the underlying sentiment is.

Seeing the comments following the article illustrates at least one issue.

“I was at the opening and noticed…

Each patient has their own room, bathroom, DVD player and flat screen, comfortable lounge areas, outside courtyard with fountain, quiet room with wall fountain, lazy boy chair and sheepskin carpet, washer/dryer for every 6 patients, refreshment area with TV for every 6 patients, windows everywhere, fancy expensive hospital beds for people who are not physically sick or handicapped and patients are playing with controls and staff can’t fix it.

Sad to see a 5 star hotel where people are housed that have committed violent crimes, yet seniors and more deserving mental patients and handicapped people are in one star facilities.”

When we talk about stigma it takes on an obtuse form. These comments bring into focus the specific nature of the attitudes that lead to stigma.

“fancy expensive hospital beds for people who are not physically sick or handicapped…”

Apparently this person is unaware of the fact that mental illness can be debilitating. It can be a permanent disability for some individuals. I feel sorry for the writer of these comments. If they ever fall in with the one in five who deal with mental illness they will be throwing away a good mattress. If people with mental illness are not worthy of a comfortable bed I suspect this person wouldn`t be either. It makes complete sense though to build a new facility and use 20 year old beds. A few of the old windows were usable as well.

This person seems to think there are degrees of value and worse that they are responsible for allocating it. For this person a judgement needs to be made to determine if someone is deserving. I have seen many forms of mental illness and experienced several. Try as I might I can`t think of any that are not deserving of compassion, respect, dignity or even comfort.

“Sad to see a 5 star hotel where people are housed that have committed violent crimes…”

It`s sad that this person was so preoccupied with making judgements that they didn`t listen to the guide clearly dispel this fallacy.

I would be curious to know what judgement needs to be made when a senior with a mental illness commits a crime. They are a senior so they are worthy of a comfortable bed but I guess they should sleep on concrete because their mental illness brought them into conflict with the law. Seniors sometimes find themselves involved with forensic mental health. Would grandma lose her worth in such a situation?

“more deserving mental patients” Is my mental illness worth less than another?

This all reminds me of the hierarchy among prisoners. Your position in the pecking order was determined by your crime. It was an act that determined your worth. When you are literally stripped of everything you must create some other measure of value. Sex offenders were the lowest with a sub category reserved for pedophiles. I was often fascinated by the dynamics this created. The main fault of such a system is that in order to create your false sense of worth someone else has to be devalued. Jail is in some ways a mirror for the rest of society.

Inequality serves the purpose of overcoming feelings of inadequacy. We create a wider social pecking order and do our best not to be seen near the bottom. Prejudice is a tool to devalue another and discrimination is the application of attitudes whose underlying purpose is to create a false sense of worth in self.

The values we place on each other are a social construct; a fallacy that can and does lead to prejudice and discrimination. It is a house of cards if our worth is dependent on the devaluation of others.

We all put our pants on one leg at a time.

The Limestone Remains: The Care Continues

Posted on June 24, 2013 by brettbatten

St. Joseph’s Health Care delivered an open house and official closing for the hospital that has housed thousands including myself. What would it have been like to be stationed there or employed there? I was legally obliged to be there which interfered with my perspective. I wonder at the impression the building made on others. When you are allowed to move freely through a building it has a different impact than when you are locked in.

I was surprised to see so many members of the public. I saw strollers and canes. I am pleased the public has no apprehension in entering these facilities when they are empty. I am hopeful it lessens their apprehension regarding the occupants.

The closing ceremony was very moving and meaningful. I was near the back as we proceeded down the hallway and out of the building. Lights were turned out and the doors slammed. I was in tears for part of the long walk down the hall. I was crying for people I know and for those I knew. I was crying for what I lost and for what I have gained.

I was given the honour of lowering the hospital flag. I wanted to keep the flag so I could scream to heaven to my good friend Ed – “we have captured the flag!” I realize there are no sides to this battle but it all seems like a victory for those who struggle with mental illness.

I know Ed is smiling down at the efforts of so many.

Thank you St. Joseph’s Health Care.

Dreams

Aside

It has been an exciting and terrifying week for me. I was given the opportunity to speak at the opening of Southwest Centre for Forensic Mental Health. The audience included the premiere and health minister. To have been included was an honour. Sitting here today I am mindful of the fact that the very building we came together to celebrate sits in the path of where I circled hundreds of times on my bicycle. When I was not permitted to leave the hospital property I circled it on my brother’s bike.

Those days my dreams were to visit my brother’s home or ride my bike to Port Stanley. If you told me back then I would be included with dignitaries I would have fallen from my bike laughing. Maybe the lesson is to keep pedaling as you never know what’s around the next corner.

I would still be circling that hospital were it not for the staff. My progression from being a patient in the old facility to speaking at the opening of the new one involved the efforts of many. Some staff are obvious in my journey but I had the privilege of dealing with people who patients often don’t encounter but whose talents are felt throughout the system. You don’t need a stethoscope to demonstrate compassion, care and respect.

My terror was to be speaking but also my involvement with the media. I don’t know about other forensic clients but I have often been inclined to hide from the world. I don’t know how much is the stigma I actually feel and how much is what I imagine. Maybe it’s like an obvious birthmark; people do notice but not as much as we think. It’s hard to pull up a turtleneck to cover up your mental illness and involvement with the law. Coming out to my community in a visible way isn’t something I would have chosen to do a few years ago. There have been many times I only wished for anonymity. Again, you never know what’s around the next corner.

Gratitude

Posted on April 9, 2013 by brettbatten

The electricity is out on my street this morning. Without realizing it, my routine revolves around volts and amps. Whether it is the coffee I drink or the furnace I depend on, many of my needs and most of my desires are dependent on things I cannot see.

I am guilty of not being grateful for the small things. “You don’t know what you have until it’s gone.” It has also been my experience that only when something ends or dies am I able to recognize the joy that saturated it. Whether it is the end of a friendship, love or a neighbour that moves away, in the midst of our days we sometimes fail to recognize or acknowledge the gift. When someone we love dies we can look back and see exactly what we had and what we will miss. It may be that we idealize the relationship or it could be we finally realize its value.

I remember being allowed my first drink in jail following the dreadful experience of being directed to go without food or water. I was in the semi-private toilet area and I wept. I was thankful but part of my emotion rose from the fact that in my thirty odd years I had never been grateful for a glass of water.

Following this episode I would pray and offer thanks to everyone who made my meal possible. I quietly thanked the farmer and even the steelworker who made the plow. My food tray was spotless minus the packet of salt on which I wrote my thanks to the inmates who worked in the kitchen.

It can be argued that I was psychotic but I do not believe one needs to lose touch with reality to be thankful. One needs only to look further into it.

Toronto Mayor Rob Ford

Posted on March 28, 2013 by brettbatten

Richard Kachkar did kill Toronto police Sgt. Ryan Russell. Which of us from either side of the issue should question the verdict a jury is reaching or has reached? They have ingested all the evidence. Their knowledge of the facts goes far beyond what most of us ascertain from the news.

When a Toronto Mayor speaks to the media about a case before the courts and essentially does his best to influence anyone, we must begin to ask for whom else will he cry in the streets? If my son is murdered within his walls of jurisdiction will he tell us all what to think?

Consider the number of actual facts in your head Mr. Ford. What is your knowledge of mental illness? What is your knowledge of forensic psychiatry, were you present in court to hear all the testimony? I’m making assumptions but given the odds I suspect Mayor Rob Ford may not be in possession of many facts. We all know Sgt. Ryan Russell, one of Toronto’s finest, was murdered. We are all saddened by it. To use your good name to further some personal view is at least inappropriate. Will the Mayor be waddling up to the media for all our court cases? I would think not. Possibly he can stand back as he should and agree with the daily process of law.

Why wouldn’t he assume the truth would prevail?

Why wouldn’t he first assume the court system is working?

Why wouldn’t he assume the whole process of legal representation, medical testimony and judicial direction was followed to the point of fairness we all agree on?

I must trust in the jurors finding. I may not agree with the finding but protest has no influence on the process. I must also be comfortable with the fact that any error in testimony either professional or otherwise was brought to light. If being a juror and your contributions are held in contempt by society they will start making decisions that are closer to public sentiment and further from the truth.

We have to ask ourselves if someone acts out in some tragic incident only because of being influenced by delusional thinking we want to punish or enact some form of revenge on them. Any of us could be one of the numbers of people who get into struggles with the health of their brain. The monsters we see reflected in certain news circles are in fact men and women who have a mental illness. Were it not for this illness you would not know them. It is doubtful if any would crash with the law if they were healthy.

It is fortunate we are talking about a very small percentage of people because there is no immunity.

We can turn to the government to create some law more “just” but in your rush to do so I would not recommend running to the government with knowledge of only one case. If your disagreement comes from little information or biased information you might hope your fellow citizens don’t go running to the government to change something they don’t completely understand.

It’s time to turn and heal.

Solitary Confinement

Posted on February 24, 2013 by brettbatten

I have changed the header image on my blog. I wanted to find an image of solitary confinement. As prisoners we refer to it as the Hole or the Digger. I have written about it but reference to it does little to provide a realistic impression.

I couldn’t find an exact replica of the confines I called home off and on for months but this one comes close.

The Hole I resided in was smaller. The Hole I resided in had no raised bed; only a mattress on the floor. I was made to drag my mattress from my cell each morning and left with only a blanket. At night I was permitted to drag it back in. The Hole in the photo has a stool and raised desk area; these too I was without. The mirror on the wall was also missing. The stainless steel toilet sink combination is identical. When I was permitted to shave and shower I was taken to the medical range. The “window” you see in the photo was also absent which though minor may have given the impression I was not alone. For “security” reasons I lived under a 24 hour light. My Hole was cleaner when I wasn’t writing on its walls but it too had no wallpaper border.

Many forensic clients spend time in these confines. I am familiar with one who spent a year in isolation but was allowed his mattress and a checker board. Obviously he was spoiled.

I share this image not for your sympathy but in the hope it will elicit outrage. The Hole is Corrections Canada’s response to severe mental illness.

Bill C-54 will find more individuals suffering from severe mental illness abandoned to these confines. Please have the courage to stand by my side. It is our only hope in leaving the Hole empty as it should be.

This is Canada; this is shameful. We yelp about stigma while our feet are soaked with the shame of abuse. I can forgive and forget someone who calls me “crazy” but those who torture the mentally ill will never pass from my mind.

Help From the Hill

Posted on February 23, 2013 by brettbatten

I spent some time on Friday trying to ascertain how I might become involved with Bill C-54. I did receive some guidance from my Member of Parliament’s office (see Curriculum Vitae) but was essentially directed to the Minister of Justice. This is where I began. I called Minister Rob Nicholson’s office (613- 995-1547) to get more specific answers. Since Mr. Nicholson also has a constituency I made the mistake of not calling the Justice Department he heads. Interestingly, the first answer or rather question was “What is Bill C-54?” It’s not really their shtick so I wasn’t surprised. I was advised to call the Ministry of Justice as they could answer my questions. I did so. “Could you give me some more information on Bill C-54?” “I don’t think that’s a Justice Bill…it’s not ringing a bell…just a minute.” The Justice Department can be forgiven for not knowing what Bill C-54 is. There are 360 Bills before parliament presently. This includes the 33 introduced by the senate. The majority are sponsored by individual MP’s. The Minister of Justice has introduced 8. I would be unable to keep 8 Bills straight so how can I expect someone who is paid to. Once it was confirmed that Bill C-54 was in fact a Justice Bill I was directed to a website where I could peruse the Bill itself. “How do I get involved in the processing of Bill C-54?” “You’ll have to ask Parliament of Canada.” “What is the next step for this Bill?” “You’ll have to ask Parliament of Canada.” 1-866-599-4999 pulled me into an automated loop with a busy signal through which I was eventually put on hold for 10 minutes. I ended up with a more cheerful voice who spouted off the next 8 or so steps for the Bill. “How do I get involved in the processing of Bill-C-54?” “You would have to get in touch with Minister Nicholson’s office.” “I spoke to his office and the Justice Department.” “I’ll connect you.” I got the office answering machine as visions of secretaries hiding under their desks flashed through my mind. I felt I had made enough of a pest of myself and was conscious of taxpayers’ dollars; besides I had an appointment to bang my head against the closest wall so I left no message. Maybe we need a Canadian embassy in Canada to help citizens when they need to interact with their own government?

More On Bill C-54

Posted on February 20, 2013 by brettbatten

I do not understand the apathy I am witnessing regarding Bill C-54. Anyone with an interest in mental health should be up in arms. I was once simply depressed, I was once simply bi-polar, I was once simply suicidal. If you think your illness will never carry you to places that seem extreme and unpalatable you are blessed with some static form of mental illness. You are also naïve. My path was not chosen, it wasn’t imagined or predicted…neither is yours!

This government is implementing a law based on extreme cases and public outcry. Where was the Photo Op with Not Criminally Responsible individuals who have been rehabilitated and lead productive and peaceful lives? Possibly Stephen can’t smile twice in a day. Such a scenario would diminish the fear which the Conservatives are using to catapult this Bill into law. The math of the situation is such that there are more individuals who do less and do well. If the Conservatives abandoned their misinformation they might have to alter a law that they assume will garner votes. There is no sensationalism in a life that returns to normal.

What does this government propose to do about the backlog that will only be exasperated by incarcerating individuals with “sentences”? We will have the mentally ill housed in jails for longer periods putting not only their safety in jeopardy but also their health. I am not the only one who spent extended periods isolated in the Hole.

It is commendable that this government is giving voice to half of those affected by severe mental illness. It is deplorable they do not consider victims of mental illness. One in five is affected by mental illness. It seems this government is more interested in a popular decision rather than a proper decision. It would be unfortunate if the one in five stood up and said “no thanks”. If a law can save one life it needs to be considered. When others have to lay theirs down it should be scrutinized.

If I suffer from a delusion and commit an act that offends society and subsequently myself I am diseased; I am not the devil. I felt no fear while on Forensic units. People were not evil, they were simply ill. Being in jail was quite different. Evil cannot be medicated.

When a delusional father murders his children we cannot understand. Severe mental illness is foreign to most of us and such acts fly in the face of the love we can all identify with parenthood. Only if you remove the robes and step down from the judge’s perch can you consider the fact that mental illness is the true culprit. It is part of the accused but it is not the accused. It can be controlled but mental illness is immune to your thirst for retribution. You can punish the offender but that person is only a vessel. It is like throwing out the pitcher that housed the spilled milk. It is the agent and not the vessel that is responsible.

This government is punishing the severely mentally ill. I have lived without the “privilege” of walking outside. It withers the soul and denies the spirit the breath of life. The next time you take your medication replace your juice with absolute incarceration. Imagine for a moment how therapeutic your existence would be locked on a ward with bars on the windows. Imagine for a moment the value of sunshine; imagine for a moment the value of a breeze. Be thankful you do not stand in line for those medications and please be indignant over the fact that your government considers this access to treatment.

Life is not fair. Tragedy strikes. Regardless of our actions after the fact, regardless of our treatment of the accused we must live with the loss. Enacting revenge may provide a sense of justice but at times justice does not exist. Should we decapitate Vincent Lee; who among you will eat his heart? An eye for an eye leaves two people blind. We can never forget but forgiveness is the only avenue to peace. As Canadians we have agreed that an eye for an eye is not what we wish to emulate yet it still occupies many hearts. It is an ill fated attempt at exacting control of uncontrollable events.

Outside of votes I can see no reason for a government to pander to misconceptions and perpetuate stigma. We throw our support behind anti-stigma campaigns and anti-bullying programs while the government throws dirt on mental illness and steps on the necks of its most vulnerable citizens.

If you believe Bill C-54 will prevent atrocities like those that found expression through Vincent Lee you have been duped by your government. Only improved mental health services on the street could have prevented this sadness.

Necessity

Posted on January 15, 2013 by brettbatten

Is it human to seek despite what you have found? Even at the grocery store we don’t stop when we have what we need, we continue until we have everything on the list and then some. There is always one more record for the vinyl collection, one more place to visit or another gigabyte or pixel to be had.

Is it something in our ancestry; times of scarcity or are we being played? If compact disks weren’t marketed would we have any need to abandon cassettes? I won’t argue with the improvement but as necessity is the mother of invention I simply question the necessity. With all the “progress” in music formats why do audiophiles swear by vinyl? If vinyl is the pinnacle has the last 25 years of “progress” been for naught?

Without doubt some advances are clearly so (at present). I am satisfied that health care professionals wash their hands but how many people have been saved by Prozac and how many have died because of it?

Mental illness used to be locked in the attic or asylum; now it resides on the street or in prison. I fear we cannot see the forest for the trees. As we shake our heads at the past, so will the future at the present.

When mental illness is given the degree of respect we hold for physical ailments, change will be inevitable. Mental illness may not be locked in the attic but the window has only been cracked and the breeze of stigma still fills the room with its stench.

If I have cells in my brain that form a tumor I am one thing. If I have cells in my brain that chemically affect me I am another. We split much less than hairs and walk on the opposite side of the street.

We pride ourselves on our technological advancements but fail to see our compassionate stagnation. If only we valued new ideas, new thoughts and new attitudes as much as new products. If only we rushed out an obtained a new point of view as quickly as a Blu-ray. If only we could package and promote understanding and put ignorance to the curb with the garbage where it belongs we might see true progress.

The next time you reach for change in your pocket; ask yourself if it is the change you need to make.

Living In A Cave

Posted on January 14, 2013 by brettbatten

I always marvel at people who have done something for decades. It could be an occupation, hobby or even a relationship. I can proudly boast to have breathed for such lengths of time but little else.

Is it some character flaw or am I inherently dynamic? Is it natural to be somewhat static or are we meant to be instruments and products of change?

If you look at technology and products, change seems to be an aim as much as a need to fulfill a present need. If you look at nature change seems to be part of the design. Mountains become hills, rapids brooks and trees soil. Death may seem to be static but a life lived carries forward in the hearts and minds of many. We ripple through the ages through family, friend and foe. A word spoken or a fist raised may weaken but does it die? If a poet inspires one person or a generation is it not somehow felt by the next?

Possibly, our notion that there is an end to something leads to carelessness. If you believe the gesture is simply that, it may be easier to be casual about it. If you believe it is a current that touches more than one shore, it may be prudent to be more tactful.

Have you ever scolded a child or pet? They are forgiving and resilient but what is said remains lurking somewhere in their minds. They may not cower at the next consonant but what do they carry into their futures beside your words and actions?

Some argue that the past is simply the past but I see my past as essentially what I am made of…it can’t be anything yet to happen. What I have seen, what I have heard and what I have experienced and felt have a huge impact on today. It may be something like coming out of a cave. The present experience of the outside is directly impacted by the former experience of being in the cave. Is it the brilliance of the light or lack thereof in the cave that causes you to squint and blink? Is the view actually unimaginable or has the sterility of the stone walls made it so?

We all live in caves of habit and routine. It could be the aforementioned occupation or hobby or something less productive. What we continue to do we continue to experience. How we react and act towards one another is a result of these experiences. Can we change anyone or anything without changing ourselves? The past will always reside in the cave but do you want the future to reflect those stone walls or the brilliance of what lays beyond?

Brett Batten

Author. Advocate. Educator

Tag Archives: journey

I Often Find Myself Where I Was Never Expected

Ignoring inflation it cost $550 000 dollars to deal with my mental illness institutionally.

People line up to test their bodies but we flee the very thought of having to do so with our minds and emotions.

Stigma and Ignorance are the By-products of Fear, Laziness and Embraced Stupidity

I assumed the older individuals near me had been blasted by Bryan Adams from their basements throughout the 80’s by their pimple faced offspring

We Can Find A Limp In Anyone But Especially When We Use Our Own Gait As A Measure

I Use Christ as a Benchmark and Pull Back the Arrow Once More

Catherine Zeta Jones

Laying Eggs, Lifting Lumber and Other Painful Moments

Aside

Irony

What I Learned In Jail

26.2 Miles

Tomato

Herstory

Touch

Ten Cent Shoes

Volunteers

Link

Realigious

Crackerjacks

“Shotgun”

Resilience

The 5 Star Hotel

The Limestone Remains: The Care Continues

Dreams

Aside

Gratitude

Toronto Mayor Rob Ford

Solitary Confinement

Help From the Hill

More On Bill C-54

Necessity

Living In A Cave