**Authoritarian Induced Rage**
Upon arriving at the newly built hospital facility, I was seen by a doctor shortly after entering the building. I was then led into a large treatment room at the hospital, where a doctor, two other medical staff members, and a security guard were present.
The scene seemed pre-prepared and like a stage play. The props were in the room, with just four hospital chairs. We all sat down, and the security guard stood at the door.
The atmosphere in the room felt as tense as a bicycle spoke. I deduced the security guard was intimidating as he stood there looking over his glasses with his electric blue eyes, stabbing me in the chest with his beady stare.
I began to explain to the doctor how I was feeling angry for no good reason, full of rage at nobody but myself, and distressed about being ‘knocked.’ It wasn’t long before I had to explain the term non-payment for work I’ve done.
Having such a term as the aforementioned ‘knocked’ shows and proves the everyday exploitation of the workforce and the injustice within society.
I did not understand why I felt so much rage then. We live in a world where we are familiar with most of the rules and seek legal advice when needed.
So, why do I feel so aggrieved, I ask myself. As always, when speaking with anyone in an official capacity, such as Members of Parliament, solicitors, or civil servants, they tend not to exhibit emotions similar to Spock; they often maintain a blank expression.
The doctor said, ‘I’ll be back in five minutes.’
All four parties got up and left the room, so I sat there waiting and waiting and waiting. It was Friday around 4:30 p.m., and I was hungry and beginning to lose my patience, having waited for the doctor for about an hour.
I decided to make my way home.
As I was leaving the treatment room, I could see two large security guards in black uniforms sitting outside the door of my room.
I pulled the door wider to walk into the corridor, and the two guards stood up speedily like stiff soldiers at attention. One asked, ‘Where are you going?’
Seeing them stand up in such a manner made me feel unsettled, like a cautious mouse or an insecure rabbit stalked by a vicious wolf, nervously shaking like a fast-spin washing machine. I answered, ‘I’m going home.’
On my left were the double swinging fire doors leading to the exit. When I reached for one of the doors, the first security guard, who was slightly shorter than me and had a slim build, stood in front of the doors and grabbed my left forearm.
At the same time, the other guard stood very close behind me with his protruding gut. I politely asked the first guard before me, ‘I want to go home. Could you let go of my arm, please?’
The first guard was no doubt Asian from India, in a very authoritarian, impolite, disrespectful manner, responded, ‘You’re on a section; you cannot go anywhere.’
Identical to a combustion engine clogged and choking its last breath, suddenly, bang, I spontaneously exploded, resembling a wild, uncontrollable Tasmanian devil.
My rage was apparent; I barked, ‘No doctor has placed me on a section; let go of me.’
With my sentence said, I pulled my arm away from the first guard, but the second guard grabbed me from behind in a bear hug, engulfing both of my arms in his grip.
I could feel my weight slowly lift off my feet as the second guard tried to pick me up. Looking directly at the first guard, I lined up my vision on his forehead and lunged with an almighty head buck like a big cast iron ball from a demolition truck.
I felt relieved by my outburst of rage, and then I resigned to my predicament, akin to a dead rose drooping. My body wilted and became lifeless in the arms of the guard behind me.
As suddenly as the situation arose.
As quickly as three other guards entered the corridor to apprehend me. Without resisting, I was forced back into the treatment room.
The four guards lifted me in the air, one grabbing each leg, the other two holding an arm each, spread-eagled. In the rush and tumble, my laptop slid to one corner of the room.
I did not want to fight; I was outnumbered, and I’m not a violent man.
The first security guard was hands-free, hovering with joy and dancing eagerly. He reminded me of the bear Ben from the TV show The Grizzly Adams, or the bear Winnie the Pooh, excited at finding honey.
He was prancing keenly from the excitement of the situation as the adrenaline rushed through his rotten red blood. I could see the first security guard’s eyes glowing like an owl at night, enjoying the thrill as if he were on a roller coaster.
The control he had over me and the power to do as he pleased, licking his lips in delight like a hungry dog, he was joyous at getting his supper. I sensed he wanted to hit or kick me in some way.
I held up my drooping head, and I looked straight into his bloodshot eyes. I shouted, ‘You’re enjoying it too much.’
With a look of guilty surprise on his face. He looked straight back at me; his eyes were wide-eyed, his pupils dark in daylight and devilishly hungry to inflict pain.
He turned to leave the room. As he walked out, two doctors walked in with a syringe needle in one of their hands and declared, ‘Fitzroy, we’re just going to give you an injection.’
As I was being held by four men spread-eagled, hovering in the air like a bedsheet on a washing line, flapping in the wake of the whistling wind, I calmly replied, ‘Okay.’
The guards placed me on the floor, and I found myself near my laptop.
I scrambled along the clinically dirty ground to where it was, grabbed hold of it and opened it up.
I always have my laptop on standby, and all my Windows are up and ready. I went to iTunes and played the Isley Brothers Harvest for the World.
Upon hearing the track, I felt soothed, like a child's bedtime song, more relaxing than a massage. Disarray gave way to calm, and I was moved from apprehension to comfort.
The track fits the occasion, but they’re unaware of subliminal messages. Someone said, ‘Keep still, Fitzroy. We’re about to administer the medication, and you will feel a slight prick.’
Feeling like a prick was the contrary; I felt confused, mixed up, and alone.
I answered, ‘Okay.’
They gave me an injection; I curled up in a ball over my laptop, and then I passed out. I woke up my usual, happy-go-lucky self the next day in a hospital ward.
After speaking to a doctor that morning, he said, ‘I was not on a section.’
This makes me wonder why the guard would lie and what the drama was about if I wasn’t sectioned! The doctor asked, ‘Could I stay for a few days?’
I’m unsure, or can’t recall, my feelings about this proposal, but I believe there was no harm in my staying, so I said, ‘Okay.’
On reflection, I never express rage. Of course, we all get angry, but I always walk away before the situation escalates.
I know how I feel, yet I feel different in my mannerisms and don’t feel like I am myself. For one, I don’t write and sign every blog John T. Hope.
I’ve tried to explain to the doctor that there is another with me, but I don’t think he understands what I’m saying when I refer to John T. Hope, my subconscious, or conscience.
They discharged me a few days later, and then I wrote the edited blog on Monday, April 20th, 2009.
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