How I lost my Sanity ~ 7

Jack Nicholson - The Shining 2Bad shit happened. Dolores was forced to resign because she was having too many personal problems that got in the way of her being able to properly perform her duties. A new supervisor arrived synchronously as she departed. Dorothy was as far from Dolores as Kansas is from OZ. In her mid-thirties, Dorothy was a Jewish American Princess of the mental illness world. She was petite, well groomed, and shapely, but unfortunately for everyone else, her personality was hard, cold, and phony. She was instantly disliked by patients and staff and had no clue how they felt. They’d smile to her face, then turn away and make weird faces or stick their fingers down their throats.

Nurse RachetI felt nauseous when I moved within ten feet of Dorothy’s sucrose smile and pasty complexion, a result of too much institutional food and florescent lighting. Dorothy was ambitious and spiteful and a contrary stickler for rules and regulations. She was angry and bitter because she hadn’t made it to the top of the trash heap yet. She’d also failed in her numerous attempts to get pregnant. ‘Thank goodness’, I thought. If anyone could mother the anti-Christ, it was Dorothy. As I got to know her, I thought of Dorothy as a festering canker sore from hell. She instantly sabotaged patient progress and undermined my efforts to succeed with my classes. I began to hate her.

Mel GibsonOne day after work, we exited employee parking together. I followed her onto the Styx River Parkway heading south along Purgatory’s east side. High speed traffic was weaving a perilous web of chaos ahead and behind of us. I imagined Mel Gibson in “Road Warrior” as I tailgated Dorothy by inches at over 70 mph. She glanced nervously in her rear view mirror, wondering what I’d do next. I’d pull up beside her, smile, and drop back on her tail. Had she braked, I’d have rear ended her, but I was confident she’d stay cool. That was the beginning of the end of my optimism and my time working at the hospital.

In public service, it’s not so easy to get rid of someone if they don’t want to leave. You have to make a person so miserable that they choose to quit. When I returned to work the following week, Dorothy acted as though nothing had happened. Instead, she enforced the rules to try to force me to give up. She hit me hardest in my most vulnerable spot, my desire to work with high functioning patients. She insisted that I must devote myself to serving the whole patient population. The cabinet was deaf to my argument that there was a lack of meaningful programming for the dozen highest functioning patients. I had built a feeling of trust and had made considerable progress. My other argument was that my salary represented less than two percent of what those twelve patients were costing the state yearly. I began flooding Dorothy with memos justifying my self-created job. I also sent memos to the rehab counselor, cabinet, and the big wigs in the mental health field in Purgatory. My public relations strategy was poorly received by the cabinet. They saw themselves as having been kicked below the belt.

Dorothy countered with an attack on my schedule. She insisted I work three days. She chose days when she knew I had teaching jobs and personal business. I attempted to compromise, but could see my circumstances were rapidly deteriorating into futility. Dorothy told me, “Perhaps you are too creative for the rehab department. There’s no room for your pioneering spirit”. I was summoned to the hospital director’s office for a private conference. She wanted to discuss my dissatisfaction with Dorothy’s supervisory actions, but this was a pretense to warn me that I had better keep hospital business in the hospital. I clenched my teeth and readied myself for battle. I let her know the head of rehab for the whole underworld had told me that our hospital was not permitted by law to operate the sheltered workshop under the plan which her cabinet had approved.

Over the next several months, Dorothy continued to be abusive and oblivious to the needs and concerns of her staff. She pulled rank on everyone as often as possible. Not only we did we feel unappreciated; we were actually degraded and looked down upon. All the members of the rehab staff were eventually forced to resign. Even though I was there the least, I held out until last. Obviously, there was a hidden agenda. Dorothy was mandated to clean house. On my second anniversary, I wrote this letter of resignation.

It saddens me to be writing this. I have been given no choice, but to resign from this institution. Perhaps you have a hidden agenda. Dorothy has been mandated to `clean house’. If this is not the case, Dorothy has forced dedicated staff members to leave. Everyone here was aware of Dorothy’s physical handicaps and personal problems. We tried to empathize and make allowances for her negative attitude, but this is no excuse for her complete lack of caring and support. Dorothy has been brutally oblivious to the needs and concerns of her staff and to the needs and concerns of your patients.

It’s ironic to say that your staff feels underappreciated. Truth is they were degraded and harassed. Dorothy continually made counterproductive and unreasonable demands. She tried to delegate her own responsibilities to Zandor, who received a counseling memo when he objected to doing out of title work. Billy received a counseling memo for his generosity in rewarding the dedicated and hardworking maintenance staff a ‘Thank You’ plaque that he paid for himself. They helped us set up the woodworking shop.

Enclosed is a copy of my latest correspondence with Dorothy. Her response was that I’m “too creative”. The rehab department has “no room for my pioneering spirit”. She insisted I must change my schedule to a Monday or Friday, knowing these days conflict with other work. She threatened to assign me tasks which clearly don’t use my abilities to their best advantage. I’m still waiting for an evaluation that was due weeks ago.

from Michael ClaytonI’m no longer concerned with the future of my career. I’m concerned about the future of patients. They’ve been deprived of caring and capable staff members including Dolores, Bruce, Barbara, Billy, Maya, Carolyn, and Zandor. I plan to take action in order to insure that Dorothy’s horrible behavior is exposed.

 

I sent copies to Dorothy, the cabinet, and various department managers in the hospital. The cabinet hostilely interrogated me behind closed doors. They were on the defensive and squirming in their seats as they attempted to put me on the defensive. They agreed that I was projecting my unresolved conflicts with my mother onto Dorothy and suggested I seek psychiatric help for my problem. I said I was going to write a book about the experience and approach the media. They said they’d find a way to ruin me.

I found my “I don’t get mad, I get even” button and pinned it next to “Since I gave up hope, I feel much better” on the lapel of my jacket. I’d let down patients who I’d so eagerly promised to help. Gene’s prophecy had come true. I’d disappear and never contact them again. I’d strengthened everyone’s fear and distrust of everyone.

Stay tuned as I begin to unravel…

How I lost my Sanity ~ 6B

Pallet landfill to conference roomClasses were going well. Patients shared their ideas in order to make them more real. I would fabricate parts that were put together by Jim, Juan, and Ethan. Making real objects was great for their self-esteem. Everyone was impressed. The hospital director suggested implementing a pilot project which required redesigning, fabricating, and installing a new office for her. We could recycle materials. Dolores believed this was a perfect opportunity to get brownie points for us. I’d also get approval to design and build a marine and horticultural center in the rehab dept.

 

Greek UrnEverything was falling into place. Ideas began to gel. One valuable lesson I had learned as an industrial designer was that you get more money for fashion. Recalling the shabby green frog vases I’d seen being crafted in ceramic workshops all over the state, I thought, ‘Why not use the same resources and labor to make handsome Greek urns with unusual finishes?’

Sheltered workshops survived by producing plain outdated designs. They could thrive with smart design and well-conceived manufacturing and marketing plans. Ordinary wooden frames could be transformed into exotic frames with fashionable new moldings. Beautiful mirrors and other framed products could revitalize the industry.

I began to see my pre-vocational class as a small corporation having a dozen workers with talents and abilities I could never afford in the real world. I had a captive audience with nothing better to do with their time and energies than work under my direction. I could arrange for them to make money and challenge them to be responsible for their behavior. It certainly seemed clinically sound to me. I fantasized we’d eventually be the design and marketing arm for the entire Underworld State Department of Mental Health.

We could design products for manufacture, arrange preferential buying plans with other state agencies, and create products for the mass market. I was crafting a timely script, a sequel entitled ‘The Dirtiest Dozen’; how the discards from hell became social heroes. I know it’s grandiose, but I envisioned managing a manufacturing and marketing empire from an asylum; like in ‘Crazy People’ with Dudley Moore and Daryl Hannah. Once we succeeded in the world of mental illness, new doors would open to sheltered workshops all over the state. They’d come to be dependent on us for sustenance and nourishment.

There was hardly anyone to share my ideas with. My family was supportive, but believed I’d gone off the deep end back when I decided to work with this population for peanuts. My peers on the job found me metaphysically weird. Sharing anything with them would be a contribution to hospital gossip. My good friends supported me, but they were not a mastermind group. I’d just have to stay focused, moving forward, one step at a time. Every thought and idea could bring me closer to my goal.

Love Bugs

Over the next several weeks, both groups came up with some exciting new concepts. Betsy had an idea for a line of stuffed toys for children that were perfect items for sheltered sewing shops. She called them `Love Bugs’. They were insects like spiders and scorpions. You’d be terrified if they were crawling on you, but instead, they were soft, cute, and cuddly.

modular building blocksDavid and Jim came up with a unique new idea for modular interconnecting building materials. They were kind of like Legos or Lincoln Logs and could be fabricated from recycled materials. We created several prototypes of quarter scale furniture with them. Potential markets were open.

 

 

TrojanJack and Virginia created a gimmicky `Women’s Liberation Survival Kit’ ~ a cloth bag made from a military looking khaki material, sewn and silk screened, and featuring a collection of already filled pockets and compartments. These pockets contained things like packs of condoms, a small canister of pepper spray, a compressed air horn, female paraphernalia, cosmetics, and other assorted goodies.

 

On my own time, I made appointments with buyers from major department stores in order to get feedback and gain additional insight into our products and planning. A few buyers wanted to know when they could purchase some. One buyer expressed doubt about connecting merchandise with mentally disabled criminals. He thought it might detract from their salability. ‘Manufactured by forensic psychiatric sheltered workshops’ was not a great selling point. Our team felt this wasn’t an obstacle. We’d suppress any bad news and glamorize the good news. I was motivated. Patients felt inspired and passionate. Positive behavioral changes were taking place. Everyone began to notice as we made ourselves ready to negotiate with hospital administrations and sheltered workshops across the state. I couldn’t believe how well everything was moving forward.

Stay tuned as everything begins to go south…

How I lost my Sanity 6

I chose twelve high functioning patients for my prevocational design classes. It took a few weeks to obtain permissions from the treatment teams. Zandor persuaded them by clarifying how my classes met clinical goals for each patient. The patients were wary, but said ‘yes’ because I was offering an interesting opportunity for a unique experience.

Initial classes were discussions and planning sessions for future classes. I needed my teams to feel inspired and looking forward to their weekly time slots with me. You’ve met Jesus, Gene, and Benny. Meet David, Jim, and Juan. This is my first session.


DavidDavid was a fundamentalist Jew. He’d been heavily shooting cocaine when he and his best friend fought a life and death battle in a drug-crazed rampage. In the War between Good and Evil, David was God and his friend was the Devil. David’s friend lost. David’s thick, dense, tough skinned hands made me imagine him getting run over by a garbage truck and walking away. It was true. David tried to kill himself by tying a noose around his neck and jumping out of a window. He had the scars to prove it. David nurtured my friendship because I was into Jewish mysticism.

 

JimJim was the `guy next door’. Obliterated on crack, Jim pushed a stranger in front of a moving train. The man died and Jim was committed to a forensic psychiatric ward. Jim was likeable. He didn’t threaten or intimidate like Gene, Benny, and Jesus. He was remorseful for his actions and hoped to serve his time in the best ways. Jim wanted to be a useful member of society one day. There were three leaders and three followers. Jim, David, and Juan had no desire to lead.

 

 


curved pinky finger
Juan was resident Pollyanna. An obvious `brown noser’, he was always sucking up to the biggest assholes. Juan’s pinkie finger dramatically curved inwardly. He wanted to please everyone. The staff appreciated his attitude, but Juan’s ‘Enthusiasm OCD’ was over the top. No one could be pessimistic, sarcastic, or cynical around him. Juan replaced Betsy as manager of the ‘Scene’, the patient newspaper. It was a golden opportunity to publish ‘pep talks’.

We had a compact 12′ X 12′ space. Two large wire glass windows overlooked the Styx River facing Purgatory. All the windows on the 11th floor had unobstructed views. I arranged two 30″ X 60″ tables to create a square conference table to sit around. I wanted everyone to be able to look at each other while we spoke. As I turned off the overhead fluorescent lighting and closed the door, the lack of buzzing became obvious as natural daylight flooded the room.

Our first session was awkward. Patients patiently paused as I peered directly into each of their eyes and prepared to speak. “Thank you for being here. Does anyone have anything to say before we begin?” Labored breathing from chronic cigarette smoking disconcerted me. “Gene, what would you like to get out of the time we’ll be spending together each week?”

“No offense, Mark. I’m curious to see how you’re going to fail. You’re a nice guy with good intentions. No one has ever created anything meaningful here. At the moment, you’ve got energy and enthusiasm. People come and go. Eventually, you’ll get discouraged or be fired and have to leave. We’ll never hear from you again.”

“Are you planning to make your prediction a self-fulfilling prophecy?”

“No. You’ll see. It’s the system. If we do anything important, the cabinet will create a new policy to inhibit or prohibit whatever it is.”

“Leave those problems to me. When they arise, we’ll discuss them together and decide what to do about them. I’ve promised I will give you my best. That’s what I have to offer. If you have something more important to do with your time, you should do that”.

“What would you like to get out of this class, Jim?”

“I’m glad for an opportunity to do anything. I want to make things and work with my hands. I want to go into the building trades when I get out of this place. Maybe I could be a general contractor.”

“I’ll do my best to help you achieve your goals, Jim”.

“What about you, David?”

“I agreed to come here, but I don’t want to do anything.  I’ve never really done anything. I had a sixth grade education, but I study Torah. When I get out of here, I’m going to find a trailer in the woods and live in solitude. I could maybe have a garden and grow some good pot to smoke and study Jewish mysticism.”

“OK David, I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do. When you’re ready, we welcome your participation in whatever way you deem fit.”

Jesus spoke up. “I love gardening. I’m responsible for the care and maintenance of the patient garden in the yard. David, you can help us with planting this spring. We’ll have tomatoes, beans, carrots, and lettuce this year.” David nodded affirmatively.

I thanked Jesus for his offer, “Maybe we can get permission to have an indoor garden for the off season. There’s plenty of daylight and floor space on this building’s southern and eastern sides. I’ll inquire whether space can be designated for greenery. “This is so exciting!” exclaimed Juan. “I can write a monthly column about our class in the ‘Scene’”

“That’s a wonderful idea Juan, but I think we should keep a low profile until we have some momentum. Negative publicity could be destructive to our cause. Let’s achieve something of value before going public. Can you put your communications skills to work by researching other projects and networking with people who can help us?” “Yes!”

The last member was Benny. “Is there anything you’d like to say, Benny?”

“I don’t know what I want… I want to make some money. I doubt we’ll ever see a fraction of what we’re worth and we won’t see that until we’re free.”

“I have no idea how money works around here. I’ll find out. I will say this. There are many ways and means to an end. If we create something substantial, I’ll do my best to arrange escrow bank accounts or find ways to ensure that you’re remunerated properly for your efforts.” I hoped I hadn’t just bull-shitted everyone because I had no idea whether what I said was possible. Our team looked like a reunion of retired vampires having an infusion of fresh young virgin blood. Everyone seemed happy to be there.

You’ve met Betsy, Virginia, and Manuel. Jack was a religious Jew with skull cap on his balding head. Jack had lived a wasted life in habitual shame, guilt, and obligation while caring for a hypochondriac mother with desperate control issues. When Jack turned sixty, his mother’s clutching neediness drove him over the edge. He threatened to kill and then proceeded to strangle her. She narrowly escaped and managed to get him committed. Jack was a whole lot happier in the looney bin than he was with his mother. Jack planned to stay put until she died. He said he’d use his inheritance to start over.

Ethan was developmentally disabled, unable to form understandable words. Seemed like no one ever bothered to try to understand him. Can you imagine how frustrating that must have been for Ethan? Billy and I realized he was highly intelligent when we placed Ethan in the furniture repair program. He was a fast learner and great natural problem solver. He’d choose the perfect piece of wood, screw, finish, or hand tool for the job. Billy and I spoke to Ethan’s treatment team. We learned that Ethan had a severely cleft pallet that prevented him from speaking clearly. A speech pathologist was called in and a plan was conceived to provide Ethan with corrective surgery. This was the first real step in his recovery and rehabilitation.

DickLast and not least, was Dick. Dick made Arnold look like Peewee. He must have been seven feet tall and three hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle. I met him in the art room as he silently crafted tiny clay sculptures with his huge practical hands. One day, Dick said to me, “I’m going to take this place apart tonight.” I meant to tell someone, but the day got away from me. Dick completely slipped my mind. That night, as I peacefully slept, Dick went berserk. Staff and patients abandoned the ward while Dick trashed the place. He picked up and slammed regulation sized slate top pool tables against the wall. When Dick finished wrecking the ward, he fell asleep. Hospital security crept in, medicated him, and put him in a strait jacket. The cabinet wanted to send him back to Criminal Island, but Dick would be murdered there. He’d hospitalized several guards in full riot gear on his first visit to Criminal. Dick liked me. I was glad he was medicated.

I needed to learn more about my twelve patients and began examining their psychiatric records. I kept my research top secret because it would piss off patients and staff if they knew I was poking around. My most shocking discovery was that psychiatrists never seemed to argue with the original diagnosis or treatment plan. The proverbial buck was passed over and over again. Out of concern, I spoke with Zandor. He told me that nobody would take responsibility. What if you declared a patient better and then she murdered someone? It had happened and would happen again. Patient stories were told and not heard, over and over again, before forensic review committees. I felt sorry for the patients who were really growing, learning, and trying to earn their freedom.

I wondered whether there was a secret agenda to keep mental hospitals full. There were more than enough crazies crossing 42nd Street in Purgatory to fill many wards. I began to research the mental health system by attending conferences in Lilith, the state capital, and networking with rehab departments in hospitals and sheltered workshops around the state. ‘Vocational Rehabilitation’ was a gigantic industry, mostly unprofitable, and subsidized by taxpayers. Sheltered workshops were making the same old outdated crap they’d always made. Many had been contracted to assemble items such as pens or package products for a variety of private profit making corporations. There was a huge opportunity here, but I had no real idea of how to tap into it yet.

Stay tuned as my students plant seeds that begin to sprout and flourish…

How I lost my Sanity 5

Chris Winter caricatureA year had passed when I got my first big break to get to know the patients. Rehab was responsible for holiday activities. Halloween was about to happen. “Wouldn’t it be fun if you were our fortune teller this year?” Dolores asked. I became the ‘palmist’, dressed in satin robes with sun, moon, and pentacles (five pointed star). A silver hand hung around my neck. I called myself “M” (caricature by Chris Wynter).

 

 

 

I examined everyone’s hands, pinpointing their challenges and issues and carefully tailoring my words to their ability to understand me. Most patients instantly reacted, “Hey, you’re for real!” or “You really know me!”. Dolores had inadvertently set me up as a confidant for them. Word of my abilities spread quickly. Soon the art room gained many new recruits who became regulars.

Mohamed was ‘a lifer’. I imagined he’d had enough Thorazine to sedate a small army. A very large middle-aged dark black man, Mohamed was a cross between Muhammad Ali and Bob Marley. He was the most popular patient in the place. Mohamed had been a Hell’s Angel, cocaine addict, and cold blooded murderer. He found `religion’ in solitary confinement. I began receiving Plain Truth magazine shortly after I met him. He placed me on their mailing list. I learned about contraband from Mohamed. Patients with money got marijuana, alcohol, extra cigarettes, and other stuff smuggled through security.

A particularly hard not to notice occurrence was the way large quantities of office and recreational supplies would arrive and vanish quickly. I began hoarding yellow pads, pens, and pencils in my desk before they disappeared. Seemed like staff was getting away with whatever they could. Even office machines vanished. When I asked a friend who worked in another hospital about what was happening, she said it was “par for the course”. Many people who work for government agencies have a kind of chronic poverty consciousness that makes them feel entitled to get away with whatever they can. I thought most workers in helping professions don’t take enough for themselves.

Nothing was as it appeared. One security staff member, who always acted friendly with patients, said to me confidentially, “I’d shoot every one of them in the head at night while they slept if I could get away with it”. I pretended he was joking, but was deeply shocked and awed. Watching patients pretend to act how they believed staff wanted them to be got to be a spectator sport. When backs were turned, patients would give staff the finger or a contorted face. Staff would do the same to patients and each other.

There was a state organization whose job it was to inspect state hospital social service programs. I believe it was called `WXYZ’. The hospital got plenty of notice from WXYZ. They’d show up and lots of hustle and bustle would be happening. It was `Show Time’. Everyone was active and cooperative and everything was `spic and span’. We ran as smoothly as a ‘Timex’. Normally, we were pretty scuzzy and programming ran unpredictably. You know… the kinds of things inspectors need to see.

The biggest scam of all was the creation of the woodworking and refinishing shop. The state allots monies for capital improvements and program development each year. Unspent monies are removed from the following year’s budget. A $100,000.00 surplus needed to be spent quickly. The cabinet approved purchasing expensive woodworking equipment for the Rehab Dept. They failed to inform us that the patients would ‘never’ be permitted to use the tools as they were much too dangerous. I had questioned Billy early on about who was going to operate the equipment. He told me that he and I would do all the machining, initially, but eventually patients would be trusted. I disagreed. None of our conjecture mattered, because when the fiscal year was over, the cabinet scrapped the shop. Now they could ask for more money next year.

I figured if everyone else was getting away with things, so could I. I began collecting more artwork. `Gigolo’ worked security at the hospital entrance. When no one was around, he’d wave me past the bag check and metal detector. To my knowledge, even the director of the hospital was scanned and checked daily. I took advantage of his trust in me by waiting outside the hospital entrance until no one was in the foyer. I was ‘Smiley’, so I’d enter the security area with a big smile on my face. Gigolo would wave me on. In my satchel were a camera, tape recorder, batteries, and extra tapes. I began recording patient songs and stories on audio tape. I knew I could, so I did.

Virginia was abandoned by her mother at birth. Fished out of a garbage can, she grew up in orphanages. As Virginia ventured out into the world on her own, she became a magnet for one co-dependent abusive spouse after the other. Virginia prayed her children wouldn’t be forsaken, but they were. Virginia had a grade school education. She never developed work skills. Her children were homeless and starving. She loved them too much to stand by and watch them starve so she killed them. What else could she do? Virginia’s haunting voice expresses the agony of her soul. I found her tunes and lyrics profoundly poetic and deeply disturbing. She asked me to share them.

“CRIES OF PAIN, CRIES OF JOY

SCREAMS OF TORMENT WITHIN

SILENTLY WHISPERING INNER FEAR

A WALL OF PRETENSE TO HIDE

BITTER REALITY WITH NO REMORSE

CHANGING MOODS, ALWAYS DENY

TRUTH IN A WORLD OF UNENDING STRIFE

REACHING OUT THE LAYER OF LIFE

DREAMING OF THE EVERYDAY CHARADE

MOVING FACES IN A MASQUERADE

REVEALING THE UNRELENTING SOUL

OF A TIRED AND LONELY BEING

HIDDEN QUALITIES SOARING BENEATH

THE EXTERNAL EXISTENCE ABOVE

COULD THE ENERGY EXIST TO FIGHT

THE SHADOWY SILHOUETTE OF I?”

Large ball of thumb with and without lines

“Have you ever seen a hand that frightened you?”

That’s a question I often hear. A sweltering day sent a chill through my soul as I first touched Manuel’s hot sweaty palms. Manuel’s huge reddish balls of thumb were full and smooth with no lines. They looked like they’d been stuffed with extra-large eggs. The picture is simulated. The ball on the right is mine. It has many significant relationship lines within the lifeline. I love a lot of people. Manuel had none. He had a mega-dose of desire, lust, and passion; nourished with fear, anger, and hatred, and no ability to have intimacy with another human being. Manuel allegedly kidnapped eight boys, took them to rooftops, raped, murdered, cut their penises off, and then carved crosses in the bases of their skulls.

Manuel pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity and was committed to a maximum-security forensic hospital for the criminally insane. When I met Manuel, he was dying of kidney disease. He’d been on dialysis machines for five years. His kidneys were shot. There would be no donor for a child serial killer. Manuel’s time was running out. He wanted to tell his story and asked if I would record it. Before accepting Manuel’s word, I examined his hospital records and psychiatric treatment plans. Dozens of articles about the murders were recorded on microfilm in the news section of the public library.

purgatory newsAlthough the evidence was circumstantial, Manuel fit the profile. The media generated a public frenzy. Hundreds of detectives and policemen were on the case. The first suspect had to be disguised as a policeman in order to not be lynched by the public. ” It took over two hundred police, some wearing riot gear, to prevent over 1000 angry people from storming the xxx police station in the mistaken belief that a suspect in the mutilation murders of four young boys was inside the building.”

 

Manuel’s ball of thumb is the star of his story. Manuel came to the USA from Puerto Rico at age thirteen with his father and brother. He had great aspirations, but got hooked on drugs (marijuana) and headed downhill after that. Manuel said to me, “Drug addiction was in my genes. From the first time I tasted drugs, I never stopped”. A huge round ball of thumb symbolizes sensuality, compulsion, and indulgence. A paradox is that a large ball of thumb can also symbolize a huge appreciation of nature, children, and all things beautiful, along with abundant generosity and warmth. Manuel’s low set thumb and very stiff fingers and life and head line closely tied together at their start symbolizes that Manuel’s bad habits were deeply embedded.

Many thieves and pick pockets have inwardly curving pinkies. Hooked on heroine, Manuel resorted to stealing drugs to support his habit. He hung out with prostitutes and criminals. Meanwhile, his mother died of brain cancer, his sister died of cirrhosis of the liver, his half-brother died of a drug overdose, and his other brother was locked up for murdering their crazy father. Manuel’s tale would make an extremely dark TV sitcom.

Manuel dealt heroine to support his habit. When he turned sixteen, he was arrested for drug dealing. In Purgatory’s “tombs”, Manuel began banging his head against the wall. He was sent to a maximum security outpatient mental hospital to detox and six months later he believed his habit was broken. Manuel discovered he had talents in arts and cooking. He tried living with a woman at seventeen, but he couldn’t stay out of trouble. While in and out of prisons and mental hospitals, Manuel managed to get his common-law wife pregnant three times during his leaves; two daughters and a son. One daughter had to be on dialysis for failed kidneys.

Manuel spent five years in a state penitentiary while his family survived on welfare. The prison system tried to rehabilitate Manuel by teaching him several different trades. He had the best of intentions, but was unable stay out of trouble. Then he found religion and went to live in a church. Becoming fanatical, he began preaching from the bible to his family, friends, and strangers on the street. He claimed he tried to stay away from drugs, but even a drag of a cigarette or sip of beer would rekindle his addiction.

A combination of drugs and religion led to grandiosity. “I was greater than God. I really believed I was Jesus Christ”. Manuel took medication for his hallucinations. On drugs, he could temporarily cope. If he forgot, he’d become mentally and physically ill. Manuel began taking speed and cocaine again. His delusions and hallucinations became grandiose. One forensic psychiatrist described Manuel as a “walking time bomb”, a violent psychopath destined for evil and a forensic lifestyle.

Several authorized and unauthorized exits from QRS, a low security mental hospital, coincided with the mutilation deaths of young boys. Manuel was seen preaching on the streets near the scene of one crime. He was connected to other murder locations because of relatives who lived nearby. Manuel denied killing the boys. He insisted that a court appointed defense attorney talked him into copping a plea of insanity. He claimed he didn’t know anything about the legal system and just followed his lawyer’s advice.

“I was sold down the river. Everyone needed a murderer and I was him”.  Manuel was found criminally insane. There were no more mutilations of children after he was put away. I believed Manuel committed those crimes. I also felt compassion for him. He was born on the short end of a very hard thorny stick in the nature and nurture departments. I felt totally repulsed by him, but I also realized that Manuel might have been a very different person had he had real love and nourishment in his childhood. Manuel could have had a healthier and happier life with the right nurture.

I was reading everyone’s hands, but never shared anyone’s secrets with anyone else. Rehab staff knew, but considered me harmless. They were more neurotic than patients. Many had overdeveloped superegos. They only did what they knew they could get away with. A majority of patients had huge ids and no superego. They did what they thought they had to do, never thinking about the consequences of what they did. They saw only one solution to their problem. On the whole, patients had less peripheral lines in their palms than staff who were more confused.

patient vs staff

Soon a new art therapist would be in place. I began preparing for my prevocational classes. My favorite patients were ready to sign up. A few others I’d I tried to interest remained apathetic. I published an appeal for ‘prevocational classes’ in the ‘Scene’.

Mark is my name. I was `M’, the fortune teller at our Halloween celebration. Many of you know me as part-time art therapist. I’m actually an industrial designer. I design products for manufacturing companies and teach design at local colleges. I also offer workshops to help inventors manifest their creations. My job title here is `Vocational Instructor’.

One year ago (this week), I began working here. I hoped I could motivate many of you to nourish your natural talents and abilities. I planned to offer guidance and support on projects of your creation. I assumed you’d be inspired by an opportunity to work on your own projects. Over the past year, I‘ve heard many reasons why you can’t or don’t want to be involved. You’re so used to circumstances being hard, you can’t imagine anything else. Disappointment is too painful. You’re afraid to be enthusiastic. You’re afraid to trust anyone. Your self-esteem is too low. You’re not worthy or capable, but you are.

I’m appealing to anyone who feels inspired or curious about their potentials and is willing to make a commitment to a weekly schedule to work under my direction. You must be accepted to participate in my class. A brief interview with Mr. Cartozian, Rehab Counselor, will be required. His approval, along with the support of your treatment team will determine your eligibility. If you want my help, you’ve got it.

I promise to dedicate myself to helping class members make their projects a reality. Any project you choose is fine as long as it’s possible. Twelve students will participate in classes. There will be two work / study groups with six students each. Each will meet twice per week; one session on Tuesday and one session on Wednesday.

Here’s my vision: We’re motivated about our projects and willing to do whatever it takes to make them happen. We’re sharing in healthy and constructive ways and learning a lot from one another’s projects. Everyone is learning to draw and make things in our workshop. A variety of projects are happening; works of art, music, writing, and practical items like furniture, magazine racks, floral planters, and boxes of all shapes and sizes. If you can envision yourself in my class, please speak with me directly in the Rehab Department on a Tuesday or a Wednesday over the next several weeks.

Stay tuned as we finally begin vocational classes.

How I Lost my Sanity 4

Two patients were in the art room. One warily tucked in a corner, the other a pretty twenty something African-American woman quietly cutting paper with a child’s scissors.

I gently mused out loud. “You look so healthy and normal. Why are you here?”

“My psychiatrist tells me it’s because I feel no remorse for what I did.”

“What did you do?”

“I killed my roommate. I chopped her body up in the bathtub and flushed as much of her as I could down the toilet. The rest I put in black plastic garbage bags in a dumpster.”

“Did you think you would get away with that?”

“I didn’t think at all. I got the idea watching TV.”

“And you don’t feel badly about what you did?”

“I guess I’m sorry for her family. The girl is dead. There’s nothing I can do about that!”

Mary told me she grew up in a large family with no privacy. She applied for a single room at college, but had to have a roommate. Enduring a year, Mary applied again, but her roommate got it. Mary lost control of her mind and heart and eliminated the problem.

I was glad I’d survived the bog of bureaucratic bullshit. Many strange stories unfolded over the next several months. Every day promised fresh adventure. I was yearning to examine everyone’s hands, but didn’t. I couldn’t wait for astonishing tales and amazing artwork. Many patients had artistic talent. There were even a few professional artists in the group. I supported everyone’s creativity, going above and beyond the call of duty to acquire special materials and supplies for them to work with.

The first patient I bonded with was a refined and cultivated woman in her mid to late fifties. The circumstances that led to Betsey’s hapless and senseless captivity were bizarre. She lived on Treasure Island, a wealthy seaside community near Purgatory. Betsey ran an art gallery, was a gossip columnist in a local paper, and loved to garden. She was an active member of the local gardening community.

A Purgatory lawyer of considerable power purchased Betsey’s adjoining land and let it flourish with weeds and branches that draped sloppily onto her property. Her neighbor‘s lack of landscaping annoyed the hell out of Betsey. One very vexing afternoon, Betsey threatened to chop off every leaf hanging over her domain. Betsey grabbed her axe and severed every limb and brush extending over the line. She was calmly recuperating on her porch, when suddenly and unexpectedly, she was frightened by several police officers in plain clothes who marched aggressively through her gate.

Betsey picked up her axe and attempted to chase them away. The next thing she knew, she was sedated in a psychiatric hospital for further evaluation. Her neighbor had pulled some strings and managed to have her temporarily committed. That’s when extremely serious problems began for Betsey. She got so agitated that Thorazine was mandated and administered. Betsey had a bad reaction to the Thorazine and was rushed to a local hospital where her spleen had to be removed.

Betsey was not a criminal. Nor was she crazy. A series of unfortunate events led to her becoming caught in ‘The System’. Although Betsey had great character references and her son pleaded fervently for her release, no one seemed able to help her. Betsey’s attitude remained positive and optimistic, however, her mental and physical health continued to deteriorate while she lost three productive years of her life.

Everyone admired Betsey. I was the self-appointed president of her fan club. She could draw, paint, and sculpt. She won several patient art awards. Betsey was a positive role model for everyone. She was editor and illustrator of the patient newspaper, The Scene. Betsey also created signage for activities and events. I got special permissions for her to do creative seamstress work. I purchased (with my $) supplies like needles, threads, and unique fabrics for her to experiment with.

Love bug tarantulaBetsey designed lifelike stuffed insects, while planting the seeds of success in my mind. She inspired me to imagine a patient run cottage industry within the confines of our hospital that could serve sheltered workshops in a variety of social / medical networks. We could be their source for design and marketing.

green hand print with poster paintI became braver each day as I talked to patients about their lives. I wasn’t able to divulge or indulge my avocation, but I did begin to look as closely as I could at hands. I made crude prints with poster paint. I assumed that madness would show up in obvious aberrations of their hand morphology and topography. It rarely did, although there were many unusual hands. I saw a lot of frustration, anger, fear, and an uncanny clarity in their thinking. They only saw one solution to their problem, never considering the consequences.

 

I wouldn’t have predicted from their hands that most of these people would end up committed to mental institutions. Many patients lacked peripheral lines. They were more psychotic and less neurotic than the wounded egos and superegos that cared for them. Many of us have repressed rage, confused minds, and constipated emotions. The healthiest among us harness our strengths, choose our attitudes and actions, and embrace whatever challenges we meet on our path to becoming healthier.

Club ThumbI expected to see more, but saw only one club (murderer’s) thumb in the whole patient population. This guy was like Shrek. Motivated by his passions, he totally lacked impulse control. Another patient’s hands were so soft and supple that his bones felt barely attached. He had no energy, enthusiasm, or desire for anything. I observed a psychotic’s skin that was blood red with repressed rage. Other patient hands were so stiff you couldn’t flex their joints with a nut-cracker. These individuals were trapped, inside and out. I saw schizophrenic hands with two opposing sets of lines in each hand. I imagined two lost souls; opposites, suffering, struggling, and striving to find themselves through him.

Betsy and I loved the symbolism of the Tarot. We consulted the cards many times with many questions. Although we rarely heard what we wanted to hear, we always affirmed what we already knew. I collected birth dates, times, and places, but didn’t explain why.

Most artwork and poetry in The Scene came from the art room. The patient newspaper was a venue for creative expression for patients and staff. It offered hospital news and provided space for patients to express their concerns and share their creativity. It was an important venue because it provided an outlet for frustration, anger, and depression. We spent too way much time complaining and blaming our problems on ‘The System’ and each other. I appointed myself spiritual ambassador and diplomatic good sense maker. Our real enemies were our bad habits, bureaucracy, and time. We were a team whether we chose ‘to be or not to be’.

One patient who infected my psyche with doubt was a young black man in his early thirties who grew up in abusive foster homes. A gentle kindness lie beneath the surface of Fred’s blade sculpted façade. Fred was involved in violence, but it wasn’t knife fights and gang warfare that got him locked up. It was unrequited love. Fred obsessed over an innocent teenage girl who was allegedly taken from him by an older man Fred described as an `abusive maniac’. Fred created realistic ‘WANTED DEAD or ALIVE’ posters of the maniac and posted them all over town, offering a phony ten thousand dollar reward. Fred didn’t realize he was creating evidence that would end him in the looney bin.

Fred 2Fred’s large feminine hands, rectangular palms, long slender knotty fingers, and conical fingertips embody a ‘feeling’ type. It’s a great combo for cultivating intuition, being empathic, making and appreciating art, being good at research, organizing, and paying attention to detail. Fred’s long head line sloped into the heel of his hand, revealing a vivid imagination and rich fantasy life. Fred could copy anything perfectly. He could have been a master forger. I cheered his abilities and encouraged him to draw from real life. I convinced his treatment team and security on his ward to let him have pencils and paper and to allow him to draw with supervision when he asked for them.

political satireFred began a private sketch book. He amassed forty or fifty sketches and drawings in the first month that he showed to no one. I asked to see them. Reluctantly, Fred showed them to me. I was blown away. Several political caricatures like the one on the left were at the beginning. What stunned me were realistic pictures of staff sexually abusing patients. Patients were pleasuring staff in the sickest possible ways. Security, therapists, and patients were having bizarre sex using objects of pleasure and pain. Could they be that crazy? Can they get away it?

 

 

Fred certainly had a vivid imagination. There was no way he could have witnessed what he was portraying. I wondered if Fred’s friends were telling him their stories. He let me copy a few drawings. I contemplated the veracity of Fred’s artwork and shared it with Dolores. Betraying Fred’s trust was my greatest blunder and biggest regret. Dolores showed Fred’s drawings to the cabinet. Fred fought fiercely as his drawings and supplies were confiscated. It broke my heart to see him reduced to a drug induced stupor, an artistic genius, never to create (during my tenure) again. I felt responsible and couldn’t stop thinking about it.

My second Mary was a high functioning extremely troubled patient. Mary believed she was Satan’s child, a bad seed. Mary said she was three when she first unsuccessfully tried to poison her sister. Then she failed to drown her in the bathtub. A few years later, she tied her to a tree in a lightning storm, hoping she’d be electrocuted. Mary’s staunch Catholic parents enrolled her in a devout fundamentalist Catholic school where they hoped to save her. Mary predictably became more twisted. At sixteen, Mary set a nun on fire and carved her to death with a broken bottle, saying, “The Devil made me do it”.

Mary's devilWhile residing in maximum security, Mary had etched (using a nail file) `666′ in the skin of her arms and legs. She also scratched and carved it into furniture. Mary produced many a dark artwork. I took her drawings home every chance I got. I was learning that it’s not what you do, but what you get away with and how you get away with it that matters.

 

susan atkin's handI don’t often see frightening hands, but Mary’s were scary. Her very stiff fingers curled inward like Susan Atkin’s (Charles Manson) creepy hands on the left. Mary’s skin was hard, dry, coarse, and reddish. She chewed her nails relentlessly, leaving them red, raw, and sore. Mary was self-critical to the theme of total self-hatred. I wished I could help her let go of her irrational terror, but Mary’s soul was hardboiled from a hellish reality of having to grow up in everyone else’s fundamentalist hypocrisy and insanity.

 

 

Mary had a huge crush on me. She was the first to arrive at the art room and the last to leave. I felt a little nauseous when I was alone with her. Even though I was repulsed, I always smiled and acted nice. One day, Mary generously offered to give me a quickie blow-job under my desk. I imagined Fred’s drawings and how easy it would be to become one of his vignettes. Then I thought about all of the abusive shepherds who physically and spiritually rape the lambs they were entrusted to protect. Did the terror of shame, guilt, and disgrace trigger their erotic fantasies? Was the fear of being caught a turn on? When did the Devil sow the seeds of evil so deep within their psyches?

Mary was hovering over me and monopolizing my attention. I got abrupt and impatient with her. The dark rings beneath her eyes began darkening as Mary began feeling rejected. When Mary left, Satan was hard at work, preparing her for evil that night on her ward. It was a full moon. The staff on her ward should have been more vigilant. They’re not lunatic asylums for nothing. After stealing the ‘six’ and ‘nine’ balls from the pool table, Mary loaded them in a black wool sock and nearly beat a new patient to death while she slept. The woman was there for a few days for psychiatric evaluation. Mary said she didn’t like the way the woman looked at her. I imagined she’d think twice before shoplifting again. I felt guilty and responsible. I should have said something.

Gene was the most incredible artist in the hospital. He’d been a successful commercial artist and advertising executive. Scuttlebutt was he’d created some of those TV ads that everyone loves to remember. Gene was unique. He lived like a celebrity on his ward. His private room, the only one, was outfitted with his own furniture, library, audio tape collection, and state of art stereo system, Bose headphones, and a grizzly bear rug.

Gene could have been free if he had wanted freedom and behaved accordingly. I tried to make good sense to Gene and convince him to become an active member of the real world. Gene made his own good sense. He had little interest in worldly freedom. He was free to love his literature, music, and art. I felt a bit jealous of his inner freedom.

A dark satanic aura shrouded Gene. His angry facial expressions and aggressive body language told a tale of uncontrollable rage from a horrible childhood. Gene was hostile. Everything about him screamed, “Stay away from me!” In a jealous fury, Gene slit his girlfriend’s throat from ear to ear. She not only survived, but didn’t press charges, then forgave him. But Gene couldn’t forgive himself. He told me he’d do it again.

Gene's portrait of meGene was the patient Dolores caught in the art supply closet with Janice. Gene and I had many philosophical discussions and co-created several artworks that I still cherish along with this life size pastel portrait which he drew of me. I think he very subtly captures my dark side.

Benny was Gene’s buddy. He was a strong fit black man in his early thirties. Benny’s phobia of homosexuality drove the former transit policeman to a bar full of gay men one late night with an automatic weapon. After freebasing crack, Benny slaughtered eight men.

Benny was uncooperative. He came up bi-yearly for forensic review. He believed he’d be set free one day, but was always rejected. One staff psychologist told me there was a ‘secret’ agenda to never let him go. It was in everyone’s best interest to humor him. If he found out, he’d lose hope, become violent, and need to be permanently medicated.

Jesus ChristMany patients were named after biblical figures and famous people. There were dozens of patients named Mary, Faith, Angel, Grace, and Hope. Whatever their parents had hoped, the reverse happened. Jesus Jefferson was double trouble. Jesus was Puerto Rican. He was the angriest patient in the hospital. Rejected countless times by forensic committees, Jesus had nothing left to lose. Everyone including staff steered clear of him.

 

Jesus had thrown his girlfriend, 3 year old child, and dog from a 17th story window. They died instantly when they hit the ground. Jesus had no remorse and never spoke of the incident. I had a fantasy that Jesus could be a powerful production manager in a patient run manufacturing business. Two staff psychologists agreed with me, but Jesus was too unpredictable and angry to ever be given any real opportunity to have responsibility.

There was never a dull day in the art room. The handsome young patient, just admitted, had cut his mother’s heart out and ate it with her favorite fork and knife on her favorite plate while reclining in her favorite chair. Another man was found combing his mother’s hair on her mantel piece, weeks after he had cut her head off. The entire residence was laden with lunatics and addicts who’d committed violent acts under the influence of rage and/or drugs. Schizophrenics, sociopaths, psychotics, and pathological liars flourished. One sociopath managed to have a Rolls Royce delivered to the hospital entrance as a result of conversations he had with a dealer from a pay phone in the hall of his ward.

If only I could put all of this talent to good use…

Author’s note: This is fiction set in the mid-eighties. Calling my protagonists ‘Patients’ is politically incorrect. ‘Clients’ and ‘Residents’ are used with less negative connotations and implications. For the record, I don’t call sick people ‘crazy’ or ‘lunatics’ in real life. My artwork has been altered and fabricated by me to fit my story.

Stay tuned as I get to know more patients and prepare to teach vocational classes.

Taurus – Understanding Values

Taurus

Pope Francis

Pope Francis was designed to blend love and spirituality with healthy values and good sense. He’s a Sagittarian with Sagittarius / Taurus hands. Notice there’s barely a bottom phalanx on his pinkie finger. Francis doesn’t care about stuff. He truly loves humanity and practices what he preaches.

Pope John Paul ll was a radiant light of Taurus. He asked the rich to share their wealth with the poor. He was the first Pope to visit a synagogue and encouraged Catholics and Jews to love one another. Nearly assassinated, he also survived countless chaotic messes and reforms in the church.

Many popular and powerful people in the world were born under the sign of Taurus.

Krishnamurti, a spiritual guide, shared his good sense with whoever would listen.

Leonardo da Vinci, great artist and inventor, was a real Renaissance man.

Sigmund Freud was father of modern psychoanalysis.

Karl Marx developed the theory of socialism.

Martha Graham was mother of modern dance.

Katherine Hepburn was Grande Dame of American stage and movies.

Queen Elizabeth and Prime Minister Tony Blair have been anchors for Great Britain.

Citizen KaneWilliam Randolph Hearst and Orson Welles (both bulls) battled stubbornly over the making and release of the movie, ‘Citizen Kane’. Kane was a Midas who Welles immodestly modeled after Hearst. Despite his natural charisma and brilliant acting and directing, Welles was no match for Hearst’s financial fortune and ability to influence the masses. Hearst was stubborn, acquisitive, possessive, and controlling. Welles was determined and persistent in his righteous defiance of Hearst. Hearst tortured Welles with legal obstacles and bludgeoned him with bad publicity until he could no longer afford his principles, rise to his challenges, or control his self-indulgences (a peril for Taurus).

“The great mass of people will more easily fall victim to a big lie than a small one”

swastika

Adolf HitlerA cruel Taurus is a zealous extremist in desperate need of spiritual guidance. From the darkest depths of Taurus arose a German dictator from 1933 to 1945. Adolph Hitler was responsible for over thirty million deaths. He transformed the world by harnessing the power of fear and terror and linking it with the power of symbolism to control and manipulate the masses. Jim Jones was a fanatic cult figure who led a thousand people to their mass suicide in 1978. Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh showed no remorse for his evil act.  Saddam Hussein (Iraqi President from 1979) was shamed and publicly slain by the United States.

Most Taurus types are inherently honest, hardworking, and dependable. They won’t bend the truth or perform a song and dance act for anyone. Their basic need for physical security fuels a practical and responsible nature. I read a lot of these types at corporate special events. They thrive in real estate, investment, and banking. Years ago, the wives used to drag them over to me. I was young and their husbands were too skeptical or superstitious of anything occult to come on their own. I assured them I was also a skeptic. I’d say, “I’m not here to prove anything. Take what works. Leave what doesn’t.”

I’ve been reading hands at corporate events for over thirty years. Once I’ve set up and settled in before the guests arrive, event planners bring the top brass to test my powers of observation. Everyone is curious to hear what I have to say about their character. I bet I’ve read more CEOs, CFOs, CIOs, and COOs than any reader of anything anywhere. Sometimes, I work events where all the guests are CEOs. Normally they’re impossible to meet. I hold their hands in mine, make eye contact with them, and reflect on their personal issues for five-minutes. The magic of Taurus is in knowing and sharing true value.

As creatures of habit, Taurus must learn to pay attention to their habits from the get go. One lesson that must be learned is ‘procrastination produces inertia’. Once Taurus takes initiative, they must let go of what isn’t working, accept what needs to change, trust their intuition, and share their bountiful harvest of true wealth. I believe all wealthy people should be spiritually taxed to make a commitment to a worthy social cause where they can make a real difference. They can choose their cause.

Dr. Bryks

Dr. Bryks

No matter your sun sign, authentic Taurus hands are meaty with large full balls of the thumb, square fingertips, developed second knots, large broad pink nails, and deeply engraved basic lines (very few peripheral lines). The head line is often closely intertwined with the life line.

‘Less is more’ learned King Midas when he wished for the touch of gold, got it, and turned his lovely daughter and their magical relationship into a hunk of metal. His food turned to gold as it touched his lips. Midas teaches us about values. He shows us how we can be stable and secure so that we can clearly know what we want and need. He teaches us how to be flexible and to let go of our outer wants by raising our awareness of what truly matters. Aphrodite (Greek) and Venus (Roman) rule Taurus and symbolize the pleasure loving nature of the bull. She’s creative, bountiful, and appreciates all things sensual and beautiful.

Large balls of thumb belong to givers. Saying “No” is a huge challenge for them (even more so if the thumb is flexible). Red color adds lusty passionate energy to the personality. Pink is normal. One symptom of intimacy problems that can be seen in the hands is when there are no lines parallel to the lifeline within the ball of the thumb. Even a partial line can indicate a significant intimate relationship for that length of time, along with an ability to be intimate and vulnerable. Taurus trust and generosity must be earned, honored, and nourished like a garden.

Large ball of thumb with and without lines

“Have you ever seen any hands that freaked you out?”  When I first touched Manuel’s hands, I felt nauseous. It was sweltering hot day and an icy chill gripped my spirit. Manuel’s huge hot sweaty red balls of thumb had no lines in them. They looked as if an extra-large egg had been stuffed into them. Manuel’s tremendous desire and passion had nowhere to go because he had zero ability to be intimate with another being. He was a child serial killer. Click here to read his hands and story.

PALMISTRY AND VALUESWhen a child reaches thirteen in the Jewish tradition, he or she becomes a man or woman after passing through a religious rite of passage. Rituals take place in synagogues and require the terrified adolescent to read Hebrew from the Torah, sing, and earn their passage to adulthood. I’ve read hundreds of teenage hands at Bar and Bat Mitzvah parties. I work at dozens of these celebrations each year. They range from modest family gatherings to gigantic extravaganzas. I get to work with the world’s best magicians, caricaturists, and performers at these events. I used to be the “psychic” with my black velvet purple satin lined cape, crystal ball, and large lighted magnifying glass. Over the years, my role has transformed from psychic to five-minute best friend and bull-shit detector. It’s amazing how much value can be given in minutes.

It’s not always what you see, but what you say and how you say it that matters. An entourage’ of kids accompanied their Taurian friend to his reading. He looked like a thirteen year old CEO with his very expensive designer suit and tie. His soft pudgy square palms and short square fingers had never seen a lick of physical work. His friends jokingly urged me to “Tell him he’s gay”.

“Do you know who he is?” one of his friends asked. To me, he was one more kid with a lot of challenges ahead. Turns out he was one of the richest kids in the world. I asked his entourage’ to “back off” as I spoke with him about working harder to express his true feelings and learning to behave naturally. I could see from his eyes and body language that he wasn’t interested in what I had to say. Later that evening, he came back alone and acted like I’d never met him before. I tried to penetrate his thick shell by repeating the same advice. When I finished, he said, “I fooled you. You already read my hands”.

“I know who you are” I replied. “You’re the (so and so) boy. I’m going to offer you a valuable piece of free advice”. I looked into his eyes while holding his hands firmly, “Your money doesn’t make you better than anyone else. Your power is unearned. You’ll be old one day like everyone else and have relationship, work, and health challenges. You need to decide what you truly value. How can you make a positive difference with your abundant resources in a world that needs your help?” With eyes dropped and shoulders rounded, he slinked away. I hope he’s realized the difference he can make.

I once read hands at a sweet thirteen party at a fancy New Jersey country club. A shopping center magnate was competing with his Jewish neighbors. He must have spent $250,000 on this party. I worked my usual four-hour shift. As a five-minute palmist, I read up to 48 people in 4 hours. As I was packing my bag and preparing to head to an evening party in Manhattan, Midas arrived. He gruffly requested that I read his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m finished and in a hurry to get to another party”.

“You don’t understand” he bellowed insistently, “I’m the one who’s paying you”. I politely replied, “The party planner has already paid me”. “Then I’ll stop payment on his check!” I didn’t want to alienate my planner, so I re-plugged in my lighted magnifier. “OK hold up your hands”.

I stared intently at his square palms and short fingers. His long crooked middle fingers had grilles (peripheral lines crisscrossing) beneath, indicating a highly self-critical nature. His bitten down nails revealed an argumentative and critical nature. “Go ahead, tell me how fucked up I am”, he said.

“I won’t tell you you’re fucked up, but I will tell you what is fucked up. You’ve worked so unbelievably hard for everything you have and yet you don’t have a clue how to truly enjoy the fruits of your labor. You’re a frustrated perfectionist, extremely self-critical, and critical and judgmental of others. Lighten up and smell the roses! ” He stood up, “That’s enough. They said you were good and they were right”.

When Uranus transited Taurus from 1935 to 1942, the USA went off the gold standard. People began focusing on their values and questioning materialism. President Roosevelt signed the Social Security Act. Labor organized, forming unions that went on strike and engaged in sit-downs across the nation. President Roosevelt defended the Four Essential Freedoms: Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Religion, Freedom from Want, and Freedom from Fear. Partisan politics has steadily undermined our freedoms, including social and national security. People born between 1935 and 1942 have Uranus in Taurus. Many have experienced sudden and unexpected gains and reversals. Uranus will return to Taurus after 84 years in early 2019 for another seven years. The New York Stock Exchange and The Federal Reserve are bulls. Expect extreme financial fluctuations.

the great seal copyCapitalism and the banking industry are ruled by Taurus. Capitalism is characterized by individuals and businesses who exercise their financial freedom in whatever ways they see fit within law. Driven by supply, demand, innovation, and competition, capitalism raises our standard of living by heating, cooling, and lighting us. It enables us to travel freely, independently, and communicate on a grand scale. We can acquire many products and services and are empowered by money to afford them.

Capitalism is wealthy, but not wise. In theory, Capitalism can be great for all. In practice, we must be more responsible and vigilant. Like religion, the bright side of capitalism uplifts while the dark side promotes prejudice, pain, guilt, shame, and suffering. Power corrupts when real value and integrity are compromised. Capitalism fans the flames of larceny by segregating haves from have-nots. Too much temptation for too many greedy dishonest humans makes trouble for everyone. Capitalism’s heart is hard and its head is even harder. It’s easy to rationalize the most horrific of actions when they’re not happening to us. We’re closer to Armageddon than Eden. The trappings of Capitalism are its failings. Where does the light of Capitalism end and apocalyptic darkness begin?

The esoteric side of Taurus is values. Everything and nothing are of equal value; identical in nature, but different by degree. A billionaire dying of cancer will gladly trade his money for youth and good health. A famous celebrity whose child is brain damaged will gratefully scrub toilets in Grand Central for her child’s recovery. People ask, “When will I die” or “How long is my lifeline?”  I remind them they will definitely die. I tell them, “Only God knows when. It’s about quality, not quantity”.

ying yangMany people apply formulas for success, and yet few are truly successful. Unhealthy values point us down a path of self-destruction. Our challenges are not physical, but philosophical and spiritual. Success is a state of mind, heart, and spirit. Our good health and the health of our world is a reflection of our thoughts and feelings. Must we learn to value what we have by losing it?

Everyone needs good sense and wise counsel. Taurus helps us believe in ourselves, have faith, cultivate right attitudes, think positively, and set realistic goals. She teaches us honesty, responsibility, discipline, structure, focus, courage, determination, and persistence. We can all be our own best friends and bull shit detectors.

An Extremely Challenging Client

63. Hand of the Killer“Hindsight is 20/20”. I don’t know a legitimate palmist who would have had the foresight to predict that the person who belongs to this hand-print would commit murder. The murderer allegedly left a bloody hand-print at the scene of the crime, which led to his conviction. I’ve read well over a hundred murderers, serial killers, and violent criminals in person and would not have predicted what most of them did from their hands. It’s a whole lot easier to look backwards to find clues, motives, and reasons for what we’ve done.

 

The following is a true story. I don’t have prints of my client’s hands. I’ve taken sections of prints and photos from other client’s hands to illustrate what I’m talking about.

Twenty-five or so years ago, I received a phone call from a man living somewhere in the boonies of industrial New Jersey. He learned about me from a newspaper article . He was friendly and effusive in his praise for my talents and abilities and volunteered that he had no problem with my fee. He wanted to come to Manhattan as soon as possible for a consultation. We set a date and time.

I was giving a lot of private readings in my East Village apartment at the time. After buzzing my client into the building, I stood outside of my apartment waiting for him to get off the elevator. As he stepped into my hallway, he stumbled and began pounding violently on the wall with his fists. I felt like shutting the door and telling him to go back to wherever he came from. He was a short, balding, middle age man who reminded me of David Berkowitz (Son of Sam). Being larger and stronger than he was, I figured I could easily overpower him if I had to. I cautiously and respectfully invited him in. As he entered my apartment, I placed my hands squarely on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Are you having a bad day?” I inquired. “I’m having a bad life.” he snapped back.

short index with twisted middle fingerRather than go through my usual process of printing his hands before reading them, I encouraged him to sit down and talk. I held his hands, palms up in mine, and carefully examined them as he spoke. He told me that he was a wonderful person who had never had a significant relationship, meaningful work, or good health. He was unemployed, deeply in debt, on food stamps, and very out of shape. It was obvious that he couldn’t afford my fee. We were both at the end of his rope. His long crooked middle finger, short index finger, and chewed down nails informed me that he was chronically depressed and in a very pessimistic place. It was no surprise that he had found no one to share his misery.

heart line to head lineI could see from the way his chained heart line dipped down to touch the beginning of his head line that his head was in control of his heart. As a child, he had learned to rationalize, analyze, and compartmentalize his feelings in order to protect himself from his psychologically abusive parents. The long islanded connection at the beginning of his head and life lines revealed how hard he had striven for his parent’s approval, but that short index finger verified that he never got it. With his large ball of the thumb, he desperately wanted to love and be loved, but his fear of intimacy was so great that the idea of trusting anyone brought tremendous pain. It felt like he was spiraling downward into a dark abyss and was asking me to justify his condition and behavior through his symbolism. I told him that I’d seen gurus and saints with horoscopes as difficult as his. He angrily accused me of blaming the victim.

I asked, “What would you like me to say to you? Why are you here?” “Because I’m going to kill someone” he replied. “Who are you planning to kill? “ I asked. “I don’t know, anyone, probably a woman”, he answered. I felt queasy. After a moment of silence, I responded, “You must be in terrible pain. I wish I could help you, but I’m not qualified. Consider this consultation a gift. Use the money to go see a psychotherapist. Get a prescription for Prozac or some other appropriate medication”. Not having to pay brought the first glimmer of hope to my client’s face. I had let him off the hook for conning me and he was grateful. As he left, I shook his hand, and told him that I was sorry for his hardship. I told him to keep in touch as I closed the door behind him.

Can you imagine what was going through my mind? If I call the police, what will I say? “Hello, I’m a palmist in the east village and some crazy person just told me that he’s going to randomly kill someone”. Even if they believed me, what if he found out?  Would he stalk my family? I felt jittery and began to physically tremble. I called several of my most experienced mentors and asked them what they would do. I was encouraged to do nothing.  It appeared that many had crazy clients from time to time and nobody had ever followed through on their threats. If I was wrong, I felt sure my client would get away with more than a few murders before getting caught as he was very methodical.

I anxiously watched the local news every night for weeks. Then one day, I picked up the phone. It was my client. “I just wanted you to know that I’m not going to kill anyone” he said. “I’ve joined the Hemlock Society and have found people who will assist me in my suicide”. “I’m sorry” I replied. “I don’t approve of killing yourself either, but better you than some innocent person”. I wished him good luck in his next life and never heard from him again.

Palmistry and Will Power (part 3)

The Murderer’s Thumb

The club thumb is known in palmistry books as the “murderer’s thumb”.  I’ve examined the hands of many murderers (criminally insane) and have seen only one club thumb among them. A violent act committed by a club-thumbed person is rarely premeditated. It’s an act of uncontrollable rage and unbridled passion. It symbolizes an inflexible nature, with potentially explosive results in difficult situations. Loving and peaceful individuals can also have club thumbs.

Early in my career, I examined a set of hands that had two club thumbs, a simian line on the dominant hand (head and heart line combined) and four phalanges (instead of three) on the little finger of the dominant hand. I considered what to say to my client. His simian line symbolized a constant battle between head and heart, an inability to verbalize feelings, tremendous focus of energy in the moment, an eternal restlessness, and constant soul searching. I didn’t have a clue what the four phalanges on the little finger stood for.

 

I decided to stick my toe in the water before jumping in. “I wouldn’t want to make you angry at me” I said cautiously. “Oh, I never get angry. You can ask anyone. I’m the nicest person in the world”. That’s incredible, I thought. “You must be a very evolved person to have overcome the obstacles I see in your hands,” I replied. He agreed that he was very evolved. I didn’t have to be a palmist to see that he was repressing a ton of rage. Approaching half a ton, he had to turn sideways to get through my door. Cautiously, I explained the challenging implications of what I saw as the dark side of his symbolism. His response was total shock and disbelief. I decided that avoiding the subject of rage was the best path to take from that point on. The rest of our time was spent discussing his creativity, healing abilities, and spirituality. I came to understand that his unique pinky finger represented deafness in one ear (hearing attributed to pinky) and sexual abuse in early childhood (little finger is related to sexuality). His sexually perverted uncle molested him, while his weak and ineffectual mother pretended not to notice.

My ignorance and inexperience made me squirm with this client. I felt relieved when he left. About six months later, he called “You know, you were right about me. I wasn’t ready to hear it. I have a lot of rage. As a matter of fact, I can kill with thoughts. No really, I really can kill with thoughts. Can I come see you again?”  Oy, I thought. “I don’t really think I can help you,” I told him. “Perhaps a psychotherapist is a better choice.” He said he planned to see a shrink, but wanted to connect with me since I stimulated his awareness. I saw him regularly for several years after that. He lost a couple of hundred pounds and was in his first intimate relationship. The owner of this set of hands was destined for a lifetime of obstacles and conflicts about ‘right use of his will’.