Head Trip

“We're all mad here.”

― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Was it that necessary to wake up this early? This whole experience reminds me of high school,
only on steroids. All I can think about is cold Soviet architecture, early morning and upcoming
participation in the institution that I don’t want to be a part of. Local authorities are probably not
big fans of sex between their subjects as well. That’s unfortunate. I was always into insane girls.

This place is called “Novinky” among the townsfolk in Minsk, Belarus. They really like jokes
about the 18th bus, which can get you directly here. I am going to spend around one week in
SPCMH (Scientific and Practical Center of Mental Health) or lunatic asylum to be more
colloquial. Doctor claims it’s necessary and I don’t really mind. After all, I am used to Soviet
idea of comfort and I would probably get to know some new interesting people.

Beforehand, despite me being send here by the employee of the institution, there is still need to
check me up by another doctor. I’m telling him everything I told before, getting tired of the
repetition. Some old dude that looks like a mixture between a nurse and a watchman is taking
two future patients, including me, through a complicated set of hallways. Another patient is an
old witch that is a perfect display of post-Soviet idea of how grannies should look. Every time
staff asks her anything she just replies with claims of her death.

- Could you, please, seat here?

- What for? I am dead anyway.

- Do you have any dangerous items with you?

- I don’t need any. I’m already dead!

- Would somebody visit you here in the future?

- Since I am dead I’m not expecting any visitors.

This place does seem like Hell. Just behind this door there might be a field of candent iron
coffins with screaming heretics. Invisible Minos has already decided to which circle he wants me
to go. Ward for male first comers, no extra measures for safety.

They’re allowing lighters, which is good. Apparently, everything is made of fireproof materials.
All doors are lacking handles. Personal is carrying handles in their pockets. No knifes or forks,
even at the canteen. Only spoons are allowed. If I wanted to I would figure out the way to
seriously damage someone with a spoon, but hopefully I’m the only one who’s here for having
an affluent imagination. This is a sausage party, obviously. I remember the last place had a gay
guy, which at least was a pleasant possibility. Furthermore, we can only go out in the given time,
so most of the day I can only smoke in the toilet, which is openly allowed. When I’m done here I
would take a long shower to completely wash off the smell. For a reasonable price they gave me
a single chamber, no neighbors. However, lunatics would be my main source of conversations
for the upcoming week.
Despite a collection of psychiatrically-approved literature most are just watching TV. My hobby
is to walk from one corner of the hall to another, watching others and thinking about political
climate of the West. Eastern idea of politics is extremely asexual, there is no spice to it, so in this
grey environment it’s not of any good entertainment to think about Belarussian regime.

There is this guy with clear mental disabilities. In old days he would probably be a town fool, a
walking joke among the others. Maybe he was not too long ago. He tries to read a book, which
one of the elderly patients finds laughable.

-What do you need this book for, boy?

-To be smarter!

This answer made this old fuck a bit sad. He also knows that books make you smarter. Only
problem is- he is more of a TV guy.

Another visit to psychotherapist is making me cry. Those guys have a talent to squeeze out tears.
I need to think about what was said. Filled with thoughts I’m getting out of her cabinet with no
bag. I’ve closed the second door between us and it won’t open without a handle. I’m knocking
politely and calling for her with a voice a bit louder than usual, which is not enough. Some
personal is nearby. I can definitely ask them to open the door. A mixture between a nurse and a
watchman responds with “not allowed.” Oh, I’m sorry, you’ve just let me in there like half an
hour ago! I hate this middle-men vision of ruling over those who under them. It’s just pathetic.

-Oh, “not allowed” you say? Ok, then I don’t have any other choice.

I’m starting to hit the door with my fist and screaming for the doctor to open it.

-What are you, mad? Do you want to get to 36th?

36th is an isolation chamber. They put extremely wild ones there.

-Bring it on, I don’t care!

Luckily psychotherapist hears me this time and brings me my bag. Well, this one was close.

All the other lunatics and clinical idiots are not interesting. Those are working class men. All the
rich psychos with proper education are visiting asylums near the beach somewhere in France. I
don’t have any good company. Someone stole my lighter, the food is terrible and I feel even
more of a prisoner than usual.

Do I recommend you to visit a mental institution? Honestly, a place like Arkham or an already
mentioned asylum near the beach in France is probably a place to be if you’re not into small talk
or the majority of things that regular sane individuals find interesting. Mental institution in
Belarus or any other post-Soviet country is not your choice. Unless they allow mix-sex wards,
which will never happen.