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a different outlook on bipolar disorder Amazon 2015

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A different outlook on bipolar disorder Ups and downs to Buddha state Benjamin Nemopode Copyright © 2012 Tous droits réservés. Aucune partie de ce contenu ne peut être reproduite, distribuée ou transmise par aucun support, incluant photocopie, enregistrement ou toute autre méthode électronique, sans autorisation préalable de l’éditeur, excepté dans le cas de brèves citations et autres usages non-commerciaux autorisés par la loi sur le copyright. CHAPTER 1 – A corner in hell CHAPTER 2 – Another time CHAPTER 3 - Clérambault CHAPTER 4 – A few portraits CHAPTER 5 – Coulommiers CHAPTER 6 – Life after death CHAPTER 7 – College year CHAPTER 8 - Continue CHAPTER 9 - Maison Blanche CHAPTER 10 - Focus CHAPTER 11 - London CHAPTER 12 - Réflection CHAPTER 13 - Montréal CHAPTER 14 – The arrival of the nightmare CHAPTER 15 – Sad days CHAPTER 16 – Early awackening CHAPTER 17 – The flat CHAPTER 18 – The fate of the man-god CHAPTER 19 – Material detachment CHAPTER 20 – The state of the Buddha or the Buddha state CHAPTER 21 - Krishna CHAPTER 22 - Writing CHAPTER 23 – Some encounters CHAPTER 24 - Leaving London CHAPTER 25 - Calais CHAPTER 26 - Oppedette CHAPTER 27 - Aix en Provence CHAPTER 28 - End of 2005 CHAPTER 29 – Reality and illusion CHAPTER 30 – The three blows CHAPTER 31 - Here we go again CHAPTER 32 - Clinic CHAPTER 33 - Arcana CHAPTER 34 - Before CHAPTER 35 – Suffering neither forgets nor forgive CHAPTER 36 – The letter from the camp CHAPTER 37 – Gynecomastia CHAPTER 38 - Kundalini CHAPTER 39 - The ego or my unfulfilled Self CHAPTER 40 - A day at the temple CHAPTER 1 A corner in hell This book will attempt to ease my state of mind, a small testimony that few will want to read, as suffering is feared, pain scares people away and suffering makes others act cowardly. My destiny is tied to my illness, I am in a way the disease’s toy, and I believe that it has created me more than anything else. For those of you who have heard about this illness, I suffer from bipolar 1 disorder. And if we need to find a source, I would say that it started at the age of 20. Well, 20 is the age when the suffering exploded and my life became a living hell. I had just come out of a romantic relationship, she was 17, beautiful and she loved me. I'm probably guilty of having my outbursts at that time for I ended up losing her and losing myself. The pain is still here, seventeen years later, I have loved again but this pain, this disappointment, and this disillusion about the power of love still remains. This was when I saw my first therapist; I did not know where to go anymore, and I was constantly thinking about suicide while thinking that this strong attraction was a little crazy. I was staying with a friend who had been hosting me for a few days. I could not stay alone in this nightmare. We rang the Samaritans, and a psychiatrist called back and we set up an appointment.Pretty soon the shrink told me to trust him, to not hold back and that in just a few weeks it would all be a bad memory. This was probably when I took my first antidepressant. I was living alone, as I had gone back to my place. The therapist called me every day to ask me to come to his office, but it did nothing. I finally told him that he had to stop me from killing myself because this was what I was planning to do, but without any existential considerations, only to stop this inconceivable suffering. A few days later I checked in to the clinic Dupré in Sceaux, a locked ward, with a small unit of only eleven beds. Once locked up, there was no way to die anymore and yet the nightmare continued unabated. I was lying down most of the time; there was nothing to do anyway. I stayed there for four ans a half months and really went through hell. They changed my antidepressants but the new ones did not have any effect on me apart from various unpleasant side effects. Well, I was taking other things besides antidepressants; neuroleptics and anxiolytics were also part of my treatment. I was shaking a lot. I had what they called impatience, and after a certain time, I started to get some bedsores on my legs. A young anorexic girl in need of distraction came to shake me a little bit. I think that she stayed with me throughout my entire stay.The unit was small. We were allowed to smoke but we had to ask for cigarettes one by one at the infirmary. As you may guess, we did not have the right to use a lighter. Everything was put in place to make suicide impossible, the cutleries were covered in plastic, and there was an area to search those who sometimes went out for a visit with their parents. Compared to the average length of stay, I stayed there a long time, and I saw a lot of other young people come and go. Many had attempted suicide and did not always understand how they had ended up here. We saw them coming out of their room, half dazed, with a drip in their hand. Some came from another building of the clinic where they had been living under special conditions. Clinic Dupré is part of the Student Foundation of France, and even if there are grounds to complain about the care they "administer" we must pay tribute to them. At Sceaux, during the early 90s, there were several units. A closed service Clérambault 1, nicknamed C1 as well as other open services where young people used to live while trying, for some of them, not to miss any schooling they had begun. The clinic was considered to be an annex to the Lycée Lakanal and teachers came to teach up to A Levels.There are some pains that are beyond words and that is why I will not try to describe these months that I spent locked up there any further. I believe that when we experience these things, and especially while we are young, we become forever different. We know that hell exists, it is so close to us, and so far away from the others ... This is when I died for the first time. CHAPTER 2 Another time There was a time when I never wanted to die, it was another time.This might have happened to me romantically in my teens but never seriously. Yes, there is a before and an after. CHAPTER 3 Clérambault I left the closed ward without my situation improving. As per my father’s suggestion, it was decided that I would go on holiday with them. My parents rented a caravan to I don’t know where. I left the ward and I followed them, and my sister was also part of the adventure. I vaguely remember it all; but most of the time, I stayed in bed and read a little bit. I read two short novels by Nina Berberova.But I would not be able to tell you where we went. The drops were now pills and I was taking a lot of them. When we got back, I moved into an open ward of the clinic, in the same building but up a floor.Off it went again, in bed and always in bed, and then I was rapidly put on an anaphranyl drip, and at night I went to see the others to have a little chat.There were twenty-five of us I think, twenty-five rooms on a floor. I remember them well and think about them often. Jerome, Zoe, Corinne, Antoine, Isabelle V. and Isabelle L. Philip, Patrick, Celine, Marie, Aurelie, Stephane, Claire, Nathalia, etc... They were living with me.There were also all those from the other pavilions Aurelia, Jean-Yves and many others. I like to mention them; I loved them. I would say that in all, one hundred young people were living like this, protected, under medication, away from their families and often away from many things. The stories were different; many had tried to commit suicide. We talked about it, and somehow, we knew. They were more fragile, more sensitive; I think they were better.I learned to live again and it was thanks to them, as the shrink was of no help and I did not like him.I was getting better and yet I went to buy a pellet gun. I kept it in my room so I could end my life in case hell came back. They eventually found it and I was sent to public a psychiatric hospital.Do you know what's wrong with you Mr. Jobsquare? This is what the psychiatrist asked me during our last meeting: It is that you want to be stronger than death.Why? Not him?I found his remark silly. CHAPTER 4 A few portraits A hundred of us, from fifteen to twenty-five years old, where are they now? How many have committed suicide in the end? How many have never really managed to overcome their evil and the injustice it represented? How many are now "integrated"? First of all, there was Jean-Yves. We were roughly of the same age. He was from the Bellechasse pavilion and was being treated by Mrs. Lamour (Mrs Love: what a name for a therapist!). I do not remember our first meeting, but soon he started to visit me every day and managed to get me out of bed. Why me? I have no idea but he liked me. He used to lisp, it was funny, especially because he talked a lot; he was a hypochondriac and was always anxious about this or that. Yet he could also take a step back from it all and he sometimes smiled. He was tall, dark and rather pale, a very nice guy. Girls were his favourite topic of conversation but he also talked about literature, as he liked to read a lot. His biggest trauma I think had been the loss of his mother to cancer. He kept a profound and devastating hatred for doctors who, according to him, had been responsible for her death. I think his hypochondria was partly due to that experience. He was also taking many medical drugs, which did not help his stuttering. I used to get out of bed to follow him, at first it was out of kindness because I am someone who cannot say no easily, but it certainly helped me a lot. We mainly went on the terraces of the cafes and just started talking. He often asked for my opinion, my advice, and it seemed that his thoughts always needed to be validated by another, and during that particular time, that person was me. Aurelia was 19. One day while I was visiting I don’t know what other room in another pavilion, I found myself alone with her and I kissed her. It was the first time I’d seen her. And so she became my girlfriend. We visited each other from one pavilion to other. It was an affectionate relationship rather than a love story like it usually should be, but we got along well and we could speak about our troubles to each other. I remember one day we found ourselves in her room at her father’s place in Paris, all naked and yet not wanting to do anything sexual. I keep a very tender memory of all of it, and after my stormy passion, I think this suited me perfectly. In addition she was like a little girl. She was formed like a woman with a beautiful body, but there was no doubt some sort of a regression in her behaviour. Her voice had something childish in it, her appearance too and her gait was quite funny. I can still see her smiling in her duffle coat and it still brings a smile to my face whenever I think of it. I think she had done the hypokhâgne (a foundation course for brilliant students to study literature at University) before falling ill and was a big fan of Albert Cohen. She had read all his books. There was also a serious trauma within her, a boy - her first love story as well. Apparently he had made a fool of her and she had not been able to get over it. I must say that when one has fed their dreams with Belle du Seigneur, it is probably hard to make do with the reality of those who will never come across such a reading. With the help of the anafranyl I was entering the phases of disinhibition, and sometimes I hung out in rooms that were not hers, but she did not hold it against me, and she was the official one. Our relationship came to a halt when they sent me to the public psychiatric hospital but I remember seeing her several times, I remember visiting her later, while she was in another specialized institution in Paris. She had been happy to see me, and then I saw her again a few years later closer to the University of Censier. She had not really changed.I recently traced her back on the Internet, where it was mentioned that she had taken care of the costumes for a play; I was very pleased. I hope she is doing well and that she is very happy. Jerome was a special case, he arrived on my floor towards the end and was not there often, and it seemed that this place was just a dormitory for him rather than anything else. But one day, on a Saturday, when I obviously had nothing to do, I followed him to the park to smoke a joint. I had smoked a little before, not at the clinic but before then, especially in the country with some friends. I knew how it felt to be stoned. I remember the scene very well. We were both sitting on the bench; he rolled one joint and we started to smoke. I remember well the very second when I thought that I was not stoned and the next moment when I realised that I was as stoned as ever. And it was such a good feeling...Being super stoned, we both decided to go to the cinema in Paris. We took the train. I did not understand the film and he slept throughout the entire show. It was Dead Again, a film by Kenneth Branagh about reincarnation ... It is actually a film to watch when you are stoned, but not too much...And it's Jerome that I saw again afterwards. I think it was he who contacted me and I became his friend. What can I say about Jerome?He was about my age; the money he lived on came from Disability Living Allowance and his parents. His father was a businessman and his mother was a painter.He had made several suicide attempts and had had a mystical delirium, he had difficulty speaking about it, but this memory sounded wonderful to him.I saw Jerome in bad states. I remember one day, he was an inpatient at the clinic after a suicide attempt. He was lying on the bed, tied up I think, and his mouth was black because of the coal that that they made him swallow to make him vomit, and he was obviously not making any sense. Jerome too had been through an awful lot (I say him too, because I’m preparing you for what comes next.) I have many memories with Jerome. I remember one day, later, when Jerome was doing better, it was his younger sister this time, who made a suicide attempt. I remember that I found myself alone with her at one point during that day. I remember telling her things that left a deep impression on her.But Jerome was of a rather cheerful nature; he was suicidal but halted his depression with alcohol and joints. I remember the first time I met his parents.I think we were still at the clinic, but we had decided to go to Montrouge where they were living. Jerome lived on the first floor of a building, in a studio. We are lying on the bed, stoned; and everything was fine. Suddenly, a guy appeared, it was his father and he yelled at him while I stayed on the bed, "Oh you’ve been smoking!” After a moment he left, he was mad. I stayed on the bed, a little surprised, but I was finding it very funny, an incident without interest Jerome seemed to say. But a few minutes later his mother arrived. Drunk. "Yes you have been smoking, can I smoke with you etc.". Liberal, and drunk.What an icebreaker!They actually lived on the fifth floor of the same building. CHAPTER 5 Coulommiers Following my dismissal from Dupre, I vaguely remember landing in a big, terrible psychiatric hospital. It was full of elderlies wandering about; they had been left there. My parents got me out quickly and I was hospitalised near their home in Coulommiers. It was much better.I was shocked by the recent events, but I was not doing too badly. The doctor was smart. It was in the countryside and I was free to go out in the park, I even wonder if it was enclosed. Very quickly I had my own room, with a TV! Yes, that’s right; it was quite a lot of comfort. During interviews, I quoted some well-known authors and I quickly felt better: I mean, even better than in Dupré, almost back to a normal and in a recognised mood. There was also a psychoanalyst who came on Wednesdays and whom I had to see. I must say that I think I was considered a bit of an isolated case by the doctor. I was a young, brilliant man if one can say so, cultivated and a foundation degree student, and he took special care of me. The psychoanalyst did not bring much to me and yet it is him that I saw later in his Paris office. It is difficult to describe a psychiatric hospital because in reality none are alike. It was big, bright and in good condition, and patients were mostly chronic ones. I took a liking to some of them. There were fans of Johnny Hallyday - there are often fans of Johnny Hallyday in psychiatric hospitals, I will not draw any conclusions… - new sufferers of Alzheimer's and also a man named Robert, who was a heavy smoker. Robert was most of the time in solitary confinement, but every morning he was allowed to go out. He was entitled to a pack of cigarettes, Gauloises I think, which he smoked continuously for about half an hour, sitting on a chair and lighting each cigarette with what remained of the previous one. He smoked incessantly, one by one going through the whole pack. He spent the rest of the day asking for some more cigarettes from the other patients or visitors. He did not utter a word, but just kept on mimicking the gesture of smoking to all those he came across. That was his life. I don’t know how long he’d been there, many years maybe. What was his condition? A mystery. What was his life? A mystery. He must have been in his early fifties and was in a pretty good shape. I also remember Marie- Louise. She was the lift girl, she was constantly asking others to walk her to the lift so she could to go to the upper floors. Once on top, she came down using the stairs and reiterated her request, and that, she did that all day long. We ate in the dining room; the food was not great, but it was ok. I rather liked the atmosphere. I felt more like a spectator than anything else. There has been some misconduct, one day I was attacked by a patient that I knew quite well and with whom I had become quite close friends. He had been out for a few days and when he came back and saw me in the hall he had wanted to jump on me. He had thereafter no explanation for his actions. I also remember a young black man who whispered to me one day that he wanted to kill someone. But the most important incident according to me came from a night nurse who had wanted to be zealous. There had been some incident and some were sent to solitary confinement. The next day, the doctor listened to everyone, including me, and it was the nurse who was finally called to order. He was a good doctor, still quite young and I think not too damaged by the system.I think I stayed there a month and a half in all. At the end, as I was feeling well. I even asked to stop taking the antidepressants, and the doctor agreed. It was nice outside, I was often in the park, and I got out under good conditions. CHAPTER 6 Life after death This phase of hospitalisation lasted over a year, and I finally found myself living with my parents, while still taking the train to Paris to see the psychoanalyst. I was now 22 years old. A year is a long time, especially at this age where our destinies seem to be built. I saw Jerome occasionally, Claire and Nathalia too, with whom he had kept in touch. I was reading again, and I was not doing too badly. I could laugh again and never really fell into nauseous despair anymore. My sister, who lived in Paris and whom I visited too, soon offered me the chance to live with her in the small two-bedroom flat she was renting near the Arts and Crafts Metro in Paris. I thank her for that. For many years my sister had been close to me, helping me. These days are gone, but I will never forget this time and this help.I was not doing anything specific. I was just relearning how to live, just to live, it was good enough, and I had to take it one step at a time. But what to do? The foundation degree was far behind and university enrolments were already over. Work? Probably too early. No, I just needed to accustom myself again to the world, and just live. Another life was beginning: I had lived it, an ‘it’ that others cannot understand. I went back to the psychiatrist who had helped me at the beginning and I quickly let go of the psychoanalyst that I could no longer pay if not for my parents’ money. I think I was living like a student, on a tight budget. I often went to the cinema; as the cinema had long been an important passive passion of mine. I had felt many emotions as a teenager going to the cinema. I think it was important, and it built me slightly differently. Emotions are also formed in front of cinema screens, for sure. I was also reading again a little, and most important, I kept a small spring notebook in which I wrote down my own thoughts.I also went out with a friend from high school whom I came across by chance, Nicolas. We often went to the same bar, near his girlfriend’s place. A whole bunch of young people used to go there: at this bar, and often at this flat.I went to Beaubourg as well, I took an annual pass, and because of my age, it was not expensive. I went to the museum and exhibitions. I remember Tony Cragg very well, an English sculptor whom I followed thereafter. But I also went to the library a lot. That was before its refurbishment, when there were fewer people, not this long and tiresome line there is now.The year passed easily like that, and I decided to register as a psychology student at university the following year, especially to try to understand what had happened to me. But also because this subject matter, psychology, had become by force, shall we say, my principal thought. I had the possibility to follow only the modules related to psychology, thanks to my advanced mathematics, seven modules instead of twelve, allowing me to complete the general university diploma in only one year. I also found a small monitoring job in a primary school in Montmartre: I was monitoring lunchtime, then the playground, and studies twice a week. Quickly while in college, I decided that I wanted to go see a psychoanalyst again. At that time, I was no longer taking any medication. I had left the public psychiatric hospital clean, one might say. CHAPTER 7 College year Very soon I stopped attending the tutorials, except for the one on general psychology. It was half-philosophy, half-psychology as it was delivered by a woman who was a philosopher and moreover a psychoanalyst. I think she remembers me, as I was nearly the only one following her field, and she liked it. One day I presented a paper on memory based on Funes the Memorious by Borges (Borges is more important than we think, especially in the field of psychology). It was fun to make a presentation in front of this small assembly; she gave me 18 out of 20 for this, so I guess I was successful. Oh yes, I was also attending the tutorials by Joel Dor, his lectures in the auditorium were the most popular. He spent his time smoking cigarettes and he explained psychoanalysis as if it was mathematics and demonstrations. I liked it. He was completely into it, like a in a Cartesian and empirical science. He was lacanian unlike any other teachers; he maintained a strong appearance, but was dark and hopeless. Tobacco must have finished the job it had started because I know that he has died since then. He considered the Lacanian way of existence of the structures as a fact, and then spoke about hysterics or perverts as if they were autonomous groups with certain characteristics, e.g. "the hysteric does not know how to make a choice."I spoke very little to others, I remember a few girls, and it was a mostly a female class. I usually went to the auditoriums. Not everything was interesting; and there were classes I never attended, for example, Psychometrics, and Professional Issues. In fact I soon realised that I had to go to all of the tutorials as they counted for half of the final marks of each module. In any case, I could not just forget about them but I kept going regularly to the auditoriums, and did so throughout the whole year.It was obviously psychoanalysis that was interesting in all this, we must take Freud’s side, he was brilliant. Many things were important to him. He put his finger on many truths, but more importantly, he was able to find the right words to describe them. I agree with him on his theory about melancholia as a loss of the Self, the mourning of the Self somehow, because yes, it’s the Self that has been lost by the melancholic. Lacan is more fun and more complicated; this is where we attempt the mathematisation of psychoanalysis. Have you ever seen drawings and formulas similar to that of mathematics? Like mathematical equations? I did not give it more thoughts, and I regret it because the topology that inspires it, was my favourite math subject, I remember it was the first quarter in higher mathematics; I was second in class at that time. I have always loved mathematics, it's a different world and yet it is this world, even with another language made from mysterious symbols, mysterious before they are revealed to you. There was also the primary school. Children are full of light and I received a lot. Thanks to them all. And also at first, with the novelty shall we say, they loved me. To think that they are adults now, how strange is that, they will always be children to me. Yet it would be interesting to see what life has made of them, and for the lucky ones, what they have made of life. I would be very happy to see some of them again. Everything was going well on this level. The director trusted me a lot and sometimes even asked me to teach the students when their teacher was absent. Often, after lunch, I would spend time in the Wepler cinema or in thrift stores around the Place Clichy while waiting until it was time for night classes. I met my friends sometimes, especially four or five of them. I often went swimming. And I took photographs: I hunted around Paris for all the ephemeral works that adorned it: In particular Mesnager, Nemo and Misstic.It’s during this year that I started to keep a diary, in addition to the notebooks. Daily suffering mostly: the melancholic now suffered from chronic depression and was not very happy with it. But writing helped me. It was a way to observe the thought and do something about it. Soon, I wanted to return to the psychoanalyst. It seemed a possible way to cast away my pain and perhaps finally understand: the mathematician wanted reasons and procedures.The first meeting was in January. CHAPTER 8Continue I moved out. In fact I just moved up a few floors and found myself on the fifth floor of the same building, I was living alone by then but my sister was never far away.The psychoanalyst was located towards the covered market, Les Halles, and the first appointment, the meeting phase shall we say, went well, it was in January. I was often depressed; actually my diary is all about suffering, when we have experienced melancholia, we are happy feeling any other way, as terrifying as it can be. I suffered from loneliness, and struggled against evil. I was not melancholic anymore, no, I was what I described, as suffering from chronic depression.It was chaotic; the psychoanalyst did not put a lot of will into it. In fact, he was putting in no will at all. After the first meeting he suddenly became very cold. If he gave me his hand to shake when I naturally handed him mine on arrival, he served me such a soft, lifeless handshake that I realised that this had been friendship and that there would be absolutely none. I was afraid of him. I did not dare look at him, and he never asked me to lie down: he sat facing me, silent and I did not dare look at him. I think that I rapidly bored him, and besides he never remembered what I had said during my previous visits, moreover I also talked about psychoanalysis to him and I was not there for that. I think he was not a good one, and his mistakes made me rise little by little. It was on April 30 that were noted the first elements of the episode that followed, a week later I went to the forest of Maison Laffitte, (a commune located outside Paris) I was in need of nature. I remember suddenly noticing that a doe had seen me and was looking at me, and when I met her eyes, she ran away. That moment was magical, as if she had given me something through the glance we had exchanged.I do not know how to talk about the end of this year, or know how to explain if it was it ultimately tragic or wonderful. The opinion we have about manic episodes should not be too polluted by the opinions of others. For me, I think they remain, the peaks of my life, illness or not. I remember several specific episodes. I was drinking more and more water in particular, as a natural body cleanser. One day I had an "experience”, my first "passing", I shall say. Lying naked on the bed, eyes closed, I felt something particular at my navel and it seemed to unravel. I felt my belly swell up and at the same time stretching the navel and unwinding it, unravelling it. My mind seemed to be going elsewhere. I remember hearing two voices talking to each other, a scene in a vegetable garden, two men were commenting about my birth in a vegetable garden; I must have been a cabbage. They were saying something like: Ah, here, look, this is Mister Chance! It was like a symbolic birth but the voices seemed quite real. My body was lying on the bed. I was aware of this somehow, but my mind seemed to go elsewhere, seemed to travel. Later that morning, in the other room this time, while I was lying on my carpet I witnessed yet another scene. It seemed to be somewhere else too, but perhaps in the future this time. I was hearing only the voices; two gay men were also waiting for a birth. I went to my appointment with the psychoanalyst, I was very high, and when it was time for me to leave, I handed him my purse, but he refused to take it. You must go to the Hotel Dieu (God's Hostel) he said, which is the oldest hospital in Paris. In the same building I then rang another door; a woman with a baby opened. I had a feeling that something was happening just through eye contact, "Mister Chance”- I said, “Remember!". I remember going for a walk afterwards and it was hot. I laid down on the pavement, near “Le Forum des Halles”, I laid my purse next to me, and I left.Later, I think I rang my father, because I remember hearing him on the phone. I was hearing two voices through the line, two different diapasons, my father’s voice, which was nice, and another voice which was cruel and against which I was fighting, was this voice also coming from my father? In any case, it was also on the phone. Later on, a young woman whom I was close to also rang. Two voices again on the phone, hers but also of another woman over hers that was nasty like a spirit or a witch’s voice. After that I remember that my parents came, my father must have understood that something weird was happening. I welcomed them and then suggested that we go for a walk. I was quite calm and in a good, very good mood. I crossed the street without looking whether a car was coming or not. I felt protected, nothing could happen to me. My father got scared and decided to take me to St Anne emergencies. I remember not knowing where we were going and not enjoying being in the car. When at some point, the car stopped at a traffic light, I even tried to get out and leave the car but my father held me. When we arrived at St Anne I wondered what I was doing there, but had no awareness of where I was. I vaguely remember a meeting in an office where I tried to escape through the French windows that were open; I remember a nurse questioning me, and me asking her if we could fuck here. After the nurse left, my parents also left. Just after I saw a man coming towards me, then a second and then a third one and so on. I don’t exactly know how many there were. They jumped on me, harnessed me to a bed and gave me a shot. I had not been violent at any time. I remember that the door closed, and I realised that each of my limbs had been immobilised and I fell asleep. CHAPTER 9 Maison Blanche I was transferred to Maison Blanche (a public psychiatric hospital in Paris) without me even noticing anything. The first memory I have is of waking up in a very bright room with several men coming towards me. Some were there again to attack me, to immobilise me just in case. I still remember the way they looked at me. At one moment, I slipped under the bed so they would not catch me. After some negotiation, I climbed back in bed. It seemed that many of them were asking me questions, and I replied only by uttering the following words: quilting points, foreclosure, and I don’t know what else: they were lacanian terms. “This is Lacan!” said one of them, a doctor, and he’s the one who took care of me. Often today, when I meet other psychiatrists they ask me in which building I was, at Maison Blanche, of course. I don’t remember, it seemed irrelevant. All I remember is that there did not seem to be chronic patients there, when I say chronic patients I am referring to the poor souls that have been locked up for years. Everything was in a square around a courtyard, which was also square. It was not unpleasant.The doctor gave me Prozac. I was immediately high again. Well, that’s what they told me; apparently I stripped naked in front of everyone. I was put into confinement, I remember a scene in that room where two nurses were talking to me and trying to make me eat. Then there were some weird days. Naked again, I tried to dive into my chamber pot that I had put on the bed. I also mopped, well, using my pyjamas, with my faeces all around the bed. I also managed to sit on the narrow windowsill. Several days later a nurse opened the door and made me take a walk around the premises. I walked in front, him behind me, watching me. Then I got better and I spent most of my days walking in the park. There was at that time a large building for art therapy and I sometimes went inside.I spent a little over two months there, all of the school holidays. Yet I had sufficiently recovered well before, but in August the young doctor went on vacation and no one else wanted to make the decision to let me go, as they were waiting for him to return. I began to worry seriously; I wanted to go back to work in the school at least, in early September. The days progressed and September was approaching. My father was ready to use his right to waive the hospitalisation, hospitalisation of a third party, him being the third party. The doctor eventually returned from his holidays, I saw him and I left the hospital on August 31. The next day I was back in school. It was not easy, but I managed.I consider this absolutely outrageous. I actually remained locked up because he went on vacation. I could have got out several weeks earlier and have been better prepared for the beginning of school.I wrote a little piece of "poetry" about this period, but I don’t remember exactly when it was:Often here there is no air but in the distance we can see the free trees. The ones here look like these trees but they stand in despair. A plane flies above; a phone rings. Is it for you? One thinks of his peers, we tell ourselves that we will get out, maybe quite soon, when the phone again will ring. While in confinement we believe that we hear a phrase: "That's it, I'm not a nurse therapist anymore." And yes, and if it was drawn randomly... So look under the door or through the loophole to see whether the keys are coming. We tell ourselves that men will become housemaids and collect the keys. Outside during the day, we hear a hunting scene in Bavaria, and the guard dogs barking at night. Here it is not Washington DC but Maison Blanche (White House). Upon leaving, we shall say that Dali was right or we will rather forget about it and it may be that the watches will be broken.Confusion delusion episode, this is how the young doctor had named it. In truth it was either a sense of decompensating caused by my chaotic analysis sessions or it was my first manic episode. I saw the psychoanalyst again only once after that, and he told me it was better to stop for now. So I went back to the psychiatrist that I had seen at the very beginning and he put me on lithium. I was now 24 years old.I do not have much to say about the three years that followed, I continued school and quit university, well I never went back. I also stopped writing in my diary; I used it again only a few times over the years. My father passed away in 1996, and I moved twice.Life must have been very boring.By the end of 1997, I decided to go to London: this is the smartest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I was 27 years old.God save the Queen. CHAPTER 10Focus Bipolar disorder is a terrible disease and I will never stop saying so. It is, on one side, the suffering brought in by episodes of melancholia, having nightmares while being wide-awake. It is so difficult to describe, beyond words: continuous pain and an irrational intensity. The melancholic suffers like no one else and no one else can guess how much the melancholic suffers.Moreover, these life episodes transform everything around him, his vision of the world will never be the same again and the length of these episodes particularly destroys almost everything he has been able to build. Sometimes after so many struggles, everything will change. His social destiny, his relationship with others.And him especially. He will never be the same again.It is also very difficult and it sometimes takes a long time to recover from a manic episode. Especially since it can unfortunately be followed by a melancholy episode.In the manic phase, on the other hand, the person may experience extreme well-being, sometimes a sense of finally being able to live, and then he will become nostalgic and will constantly look for this particular high mood. This disease will often keep him away from society; will make him lose his job, quit school etc... And he will then have few weapons to return to the real world. The hardness of the social world to which he was more or less used to, will open new wounds.He has no references anymore; he will always be totally different from others and will have to juggle these differences in sensitivity. The disease changes what he was supposed to be made of. It changes his destiny. CHAPTER 11 London I left with a big bag, some money, and the address of someone willing to take me in for a few days. I had been to London twice before and had stayed in youth hostels. My English was very bad. Despite this I found a home and regular work.I managed to leave behind me in France, an image that others had about me and which was not the real me anymore. I do not know exactly what other people think of this disease; actually I understand others less and less. The advantage in England is that I did not talk about my illness. I knew about it and for a long time I was the only one to know. England, London, I should say, is a country where everyone is considered different because everyone is different. For me, the French sought to become a cliché. They are almost all clichés. I lived in shared accommodation, for those who know Camberwell, London SE5. There were eight of us, when one left, we put an ad in the newspaper and then received visitors. I saw many people come and go. It was nice not to live alone. I stayed there for four and half years. I began to write again, but this time it was for a novel. I worked on it and finished it. I am quite proud of it. I wrote many poems too. There's something very romantic about writing, especially when you really live with it, maybe even for it, and it accompanies you almost constantly. I went for walks, a lot, and the different periods of my work made me discover several areas of London. Being in a foreign country awakens you and speaking another language somehow builds another structure to your Self. I can say that I'm not exactly the same person when I speak English. Actually, I prefer speaking English; to live in English.I continued to take lithium and did not need to see a doctor to renew the prescription. I slid my renewal in the mailbox at the surgery and went to withdraw the prescription thereafter. Although I still had a tendency to be depressed and was psychologically sensitive and fragile, I did not have any serious episodes. There was no consultation or hospitalisation.I worked as a waiter, a factory worker and did other jobs too, but I quickly realised that market research would allow me to make a decent living. Being able to speak French in this case was a real advantage.I also had a love story, the only real love story since the failure of my twenties.These years in London were far better than many previous ones. CHAPTER 12 Reflection I always seem to be looking for something I have lost, to be missing something. I do not know what to call it, a mood, intelligence, Self. Something I had before the first time I got really ill and that I am perpetually looking to touch again, to feel again, and to see again. What is the Self, since it seems to be destroyed during these episodes? What is left of it afterwards? What is left of me? CHAPTER 13Montréal I left for Montreal as I l had left for London, with a big bag and some money. This time I decided to stay at a youth hostel. It was during the French election, in April 2002. During my last few years in London I had gradually compiled a file to obtain a permanent Canadian visa. The fact that I was bilingual and had lived and worked in a country other than my home country was a real advantage, and indeed I actually got my visa. I had already spent two lovely weeks in Quebec In 1996; and I really wanted to try to live there. Montreal is a great city and it's true that its plateau is just like a village. This is precisely where I found a home, Avenue des Erables for those who know. I shared a three-room flat with a young girl, Marie-Claude; I think she was 20 years old then. It was a small building; the washing machine was in the basement. I started work in September, in a big well-known private college. I dealt with thirteen and fourteen year-olds, whom I guided, supervised and with whom I had an hour of directed study, a time during which they did their homework and received help from other students in case of difficulty. The director was ecclesiastical, but religion did not intervene in the education. There were three deputy directors, two men and one woman and I was under the supervision of one of them. He was very kind and deserving that I mention his name. It was his last year of work, and he had been criticised by the teachers but I think he fulfilled its role quite well. I bore the title of educator; there were two educators per level. There was also someone named Pastrèsclair, he was responsible for absences. We often followed his instructions, but he was in no case my boss. For a long time everything went well, the students were great. It was a new thing for me, as I was used to primary school children. Lafontaine Park was close to home. It is a beautiful urban park and during winter it is simply beautiful. Its water transforms into ice and snow decides of everything else. There are a lot of squirrels in the park, grey squirrels like in London. There is a different atmosphere in this city than in France and there lies an unusual air of wellbeing. In the street people are quite cordial and their familiarity is very pleasant. I met a couple in the park one evening, an evening during which Marie-Claude and I had had a few drinks and felt like going out and to enjoy it. I met them in the dark, it was fun. He became my friend. They separated afterwards. Saïd was a researcher at the university, a brain specialist, mainly for memory and drugs, he then came to live close to me and it was very convenient. I bought a computer and I was able to work on a second novel. I also took up painting. Marie-Claude eventually moved out and her room became my studio. Painting provided me with great pleasure, I was using mostly acrylic gels for work in which Nature, which feels so strong there, and light, the winter light of Montreal when the sun shines on the snow, had an important influence. Saïd really enjoyed my work. Each work, when finished, was packaged carefully in view of a possible future exhibition. I also participated in a program on a local radio station. I came across the radio presenter purely by chance and he asked me to present the French alternative scene on his show. I had always been interested in music without ever doing anything about it. I had been to concerts, in small theatres in Paris: Elysee Montmartre, Divan du monde and Arapaho, but also in London. We recorded every Sunday afternoon and I remember interviewing Vincent Delerm, a well-known French singer-songwriter, pianist and composer. I was pretty happy to be there. I had taken a rat as a pet, and his name was Arthur, and I let him run free in the flat, but he spent most of his time on top of the fridge, which was his throne. I don’t remember when the incident happened but I never saw it coming. I think it was in February. The head of the 17 year-olds at the school had left, maybe for another job, and they asked me to replace him. I was very attached to my own students, and I did not want to leave them and so we found an agreement to enable me to take care of both ages at the same time. Therefore, I still had the youngest students during lunch hours and study time where I also helped them with their homework: monitoring alone was very boring and with the enthusiastic agreement of my boss, I joined up homework assistance, as my education enabled me to do so. The trust that our superior had put in me and the good relationship I had with the students started to annoy Pastrèsclair without me noticing anything. One day, during study time he cornered me in a back room and started yelling violently at me. He stood in front of the door to block the way. Some students were watching the scene from behind the window door. We finally went to the office of our direct boss who proved me right. But I did not want to end it there. At my request I had an interview with the Principal. I wanted it to be clearly stated to Pastrèsclair that if he did this again he would be sacked. I was very tense by all this because I had to continue to work with him as if nothing had happened. I did not receive a satisfactory answer and so I decided to resign. I thought I was quite right to do so. Whether I was right or wrong to make this decision quite in a rush, I don’t ask myself this question anymore, this attack had destroyed everything around me, all these years of struggle to return to society, and try to live happily. There are events in life that are surmountable for most people, but for someone suffering from bipolar disorder, each painful event can lead to the nightmare. As if he had long out-dated his tolerance to pain. CHAPTER 14 The arrival of the nightmare At first I thought I would get there, for before the incident I was fine. I thought I could live without the college. So I started to look for work while spending my days painting and writing. I found a few hours for a new job. Market research as in England, but this time it would be face to face. I was in a large shopping centre and I invited some passers-by, only women- the consumer queens- to try out the product and answer a survey on the same product: some washing powder or something else. We talked about packaging, consumption habits etc. It was not about selling and sometimes we even had samples. It was fun. I liked it, but it was only for a few hours. I also kept doing the radio show. But gradually, in parallel, I should say, slyly, grief was crawling back inside me. Yet I continued to be fine, I thought I would be able to overcome it.My painting experience became almost supernatural. For me, what I was doing had to do with Abstract Expressionism, let’s say that what I was doing with the matter was the basis of the construction. Sort of like Jackson Pollock but whose procedure would be calmer and would, out of thin air, and ultimately become figurative. My senses began to develop dramatically and everything became more intense. Because of this my novel also plunged into the supernatural. I was beginning to feel what I had felt in Paris, before my stay at Maison Blanche. Another place. I found an ad that I liked. I don’t remember how it was formulated but I went. His name was Patrick and he practiced medicine wheel and other extra sensory communication. He was younger than me and he told me his story, as we were both sitting on a nice carpet facing each other. Sometimes he communicated with the dead. He told me that it all started when his mother died when he was still young. His mother then communicated with him. Sometimes others communicated with him as well. What is fascinating about these people is that if they are actually psychotic (I am not saying they are), their madness is well rooted in their reality. I went there out of curiosity and to express myself a little on the divine that I was feeling. No spirit came to visit us, but I have great memories of that time. When you become spiritual, it is always a good idea to meet others, to share together, and to feel together. Well it’s always a good thing, I don’t know, it’s always interesting, there isn't any doubt about that. And then I saw a second one, he was older and weirder. I told him about my intuition of another place. But while according to me, this other place was populated by beneficial entities, he assured me with certainty that evil forces were also present.I cannot help thinking that I'm in France and that these people will, for a fact; take the form of imaginary doubts in the minds of French readers. There is a spiritual intolerance in France, did you know? Say Dieu to a French person and God to an English person for example, and observe their reactions. The hunting of cults has no equivalent in Canada, as a mystical possibility reigns there. A possibility that was already there, the Indians had left their mark...I bought semi-precious stones, I smoked sage...The first incident that I remember was when one day; they found me naked in a landing, in the corridor. I remember ringing a doorbell, and someone opened it while I was naked. I think it was a woman who laughed at me; she must have called the coppers because I found myself once again in the psychiatric hospital.I don’t really recall this period of hospitalisation, only that I got out pretty fast and that I spent a night at Saïd’s before returning home. I remember another hospitalisation and possibly a third; I somehow mix them up. I remember that Saïd drove me there one day and that I spent a night with Arthur whom I carried with me sometimes. I actually remember a scene quite well. There was a guy with me called Jean-Sebastien, I have no idea what he was doing there. They told me that they had picked him up in the park. I was so high and he was so high too, as if we had not been there by accident. Very soon we started to enter parallel communication, we communicated together with another place. I was communicating to another place through him. It's amazing how difficult it is to describe this kind of communication: it’s a sensory communication. At one point, we walked together in this little hallway, and I entered a room. A young man whose name was displayed, Jean-Nicolas, was lying there. There was a flower in a pot of water placed on the floor next to his bed. I walked in and smelt the flower. Can you smell it? I asked him. Meaning: can you smell the flower through me? As if his brain received the information at the same time as I did. He fully understood and said yes, he also added: "I did not understand why I had to stay two more days, but now I do."Jean-Sebastian and Jean-Nicolas, if you ever read this, you need to know that I remember and love you. And that I was not able to reach the red dot in the park.Then they separated us, me and Jean-Sebastien, and I found myself in another section. It was after this hospitalisation that I collapsed. When I left, I realised that melancholia was coming back and that it would catch up with me. I felt the horror approaching, and I did everything to fight it while everything was busting up. And I slipped into the abyss, the horror, a death-stricken pain that destroys everything. I knew about it, I had had the unfortunate experience before. But I was alone there. All the pathos of my resignation had resurfaced, and death was prowling. But what to do? For those who have not experienced melancholia I must say that in melancholia, the pain can reach levels that are unimaginable to a normal healthy person. Pain goes beyond reason. I kept it for several months, but I only ended in pain. I remember going on holiday with a friend who came to visit me, and the agony it had been for him and me. I even remember being able to find work for the next school year but being absolutely unable to do it. Yes, I struggled, but there was nothing left to do. The monster would win again. My mother came all the way from France to get me. It took her a lot of courage and she struggled against some very defeatist thoughts. I thought I would never be able to fly and I told her about it, I was just someone lying on the ground and in pain. I have very little memory of this trip. I only remember waking up and me and my mother being asked to leave the plane by a hostess, as we were the last ones still there.I was melancholic and back in France. CHAPTER 15 Sad days I can reconstruct more of the events that followed than I can remember. I went to the public psychiatric hospital in St-Denis (a commune near Paris) for a few days. But the doctor realised immediately that I could not live my melancholia in this place and she transferred me to a large clinic in the Paris region. In it there was a Dr. J. who saw me. I was in a strange state, as if I had been stunned by the pain. I think this hospitalisation phase lasted several months. Dr. J. wanted to read my novels and I handed him copies. It was a mistake. He then declared that I was a writer and tried to force me to write; like a sort of rescue attempt through writing. But I could not do it; didn’t he understand anything about my state of mind? Sometimes, he made me wait hours in the waiting room when he had actually given me an appointment, it was some kind of a game for him, making his patients wait, he must have thought it was therapeutic ... I was sitting in front of him and he was barely listening to me, and nothing progressed. There was a large painting on the wall; it looked like a huge pile of excrement. One day, on a Wednesday, he even took me to St Anne for a presentation of the patients; he called it a double diagnosis. Just like a monkey, I found myself among an assembly of doctors and students gathered around a sort of master that seemed to be amused by me. But nothing progressed, and certainly not the writing. This is when I remember Anne. How long had I been there? I would not be able to tell you, but Anne altered the deal because I fell in love. Was I better? I did not really know, but I could feel it. The first time I saw her she was painting a woman falling at the back of the studio, she had studied Fine Arts. She was very beautiful. I think it was she who gave me a kiss one night.I remember another character, he had written a screenplay and wanted it to be shot with Pacino and De Niro, or otherwise he would commit suicide. He understood that it was almost impossible and that is precisely why he wanted to kill himself. I don’t know if his script was any good, but I do know that Dr. J. would not let him get out. Anne had a room right above mine and it was with great surprise that one night I saw a bottle, tied to a string, coming through my window. A small empty water bottle containing a message, and this is how we started to communicate, it was so romantic...And then there was the sismotherapy. I am the one who finally made the request.Sismotherapy is the new ECT. The procedure is to induce an epilepsy seizure through an electrical discharge in the brain under general anaesthesia. Sismotherapy is done in case of serious depression or melancholia when the person no longer responds to antidepressants. When you wake up, you don’t remember anything, even your name is hard to recall, and then memories slowly return. But in the long term, it is still difficult for me to remember periods related to sismotherapy. Sismotherapy is obviously a heavy treatment but is effective in many cases. I may have been better at times after it, but it did not last. I found myself in a psychiatric hospital without knowing how I got there. Anne, who had just got out, I think, wrote a letter to Dr. J. saying, among other things, that I tried to strangle her! He did not give me any explanation and worst, I had to strongly insist to get my novels back, and he wanted to keep them. I obviously did not try to strangle Anne, and actually I saw Anne afterwards. Let’s just say it was a consequence of her pathology: she had a history for being like that. She was not a patient of Dr. J., but he could have at least checked with his colleague before foolishly taking it at face value. This doctor is a nuisance; he puts lives in danger by his stupidity.I stress about it a little because I discovered an article from him in a professional journal afterwards, it was called La folie est-elle une idéologie (Is insanity an ideology)? Man, it is psychiatry that is an ideology. At the public hospital I saw the same doctor I had seen the first time, and she believed me: you’re not very lucky Mr Jobsquare, she said. And she made me change clinics. I had a new series of sismotherapy, without any results. The doctor, this time was a jolly one, and unlike the previous one, he did not see himself as an intellectual, and so things went more smoothly with him. But I ended up staying there more than four months. I was not taking lithium anymore. I think it was an idea of the ideologist in order to focus more on my depression. After a while I got better but I had nothing in France, no money to put a roof above my head, and no money to live on. CHAPTER 16 Early awakening That's a lot of suffering for a man, too much, undoubtedly. There must be a threshold of pain a man can tolerate and I’ve long gone beyond that stage. Most people will never know such pain and such decline; most of them probably ignore that kind of suffering. If they only knew how lucky they are; to live and to let time go by. I do not believe in Nietzsche’s phrase that says “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. Pain destroys personality, it destroys the being. Moreover, when you suffer you need everybody and nobody needs you. In addition, you also fight against the way they look at you as if you were guilty of a crime. They will never know such pain and yet they often judge. Many abandon you. There is nothing romantic about the psychic pain when it reaches such levels. After several months in this new clinic, I began to feel better. I sometimes played games with other patients and I walked around the park a lot, listening to music on my headphones. I could walk for hours. I particularly remember a song by Godspeed You Black Emperor! that gave rhythm to my feet and a man who was saying “The car is on fire and there is no drive with the wheel”. I thought that this situation suited both my state and the general state of the world. Moreover I took it more like a message, the name of this group, yes maybe I was the Black Emperor and God was retouching me a little bit, giving me momentum. So it happened that I sometimes felt "the Strength”? And to feel really good, yes the idea of God was coming back. On the patio where patients often met up, I remember two girls who were almost fighting to have the privilege to lay their head on my belly while we were sitting on the floor. There was there no attempt at seduction or anything sexual to it, what they found in it seemed like a radiation, a very special kind of comfort. The weather was getting nice; and I was also allowed to wander outside of the clinic. I found a place where I could discreetly expose my skin to the sun near a stream, and I met two young fishermen with whom I sometimes smoked a joint. I think the doctor knew but did not say anything, as he must have understood that my pleasures were rare. Even better, I had to get out now. During my walks outside I looked for a place to live. My sister finally lent me the money and a friend agreed to be my guarantor. And I finally moved in close to the clinic. CHAPTER 17The flat It was a big flat. I did not need one that big but I did not really have a choice. I needed a place to live and fast, so I took this one because it was available. I barely furnished it, with a futon, a recovery chair and some cushions. I do not remember much of this period. It is very muddled, and in retrospect it is likely that this was a rise towards the manic phase. My new ambitions to return to society may not have been viable, but I needed to believe in something. I thought about various things, like helping students with learning difficulties in particular. I had saved a corner of the flat to use for this purpose; starting a small business of computer services, Internet marketing support and advice, or something like that. After I’d gather some experience, I would try the adventure also in England and share my time between the two countries. I was well informed and I had written up a standard contract. I hardly saw anyone, and in any case hardly anyone wanted to see me. Anticipating success or the development of my business, I bought a frequent user card on the SNCF (France’s national state-owned railway company) that cost me quite a lot; I was also making some other eccentric expenses, for example buying children's clothing. I had also started to follow a Mandarin course with a private tutor. I was totally unstructured, socially deconstructed, but I was fighting. My spiritual side came back, and I often meditated. I also bought a book on the Chinese tarot whose arcana helped me, and I also got some candles and incense. I don’t exactly recall when I read Memories, Dreams, Reflection by Carl Gustav Jung, but I know it influenced me a lot, as I could see myself in some of the mystical experiences of his life. I considered him a kind of intellectual father. I remember taking four books from the library, The Carnival of immortals by Enki Bilal, La voie de l’énergie (the awakening and development of the Chi, or vital energy) by Vlady Stevanovitch, Flying saucers: A Modern Myth Of Things Seen In The Skies by C. G. Jung and a huge book about Antonin Artaud; the front cover pictures his young face who lived with me in my daily life, the only picture of someone else. Did you know that Artaud had experienced very specific things? At one point he believed that he was Christ, well that's what I think I read. Did you know that Artaud and Lacan had met and that Artaud hated Lacan? He actually speaks about him in his work entitled Van Gogh, The Man Suicided by Society; he was referred to as Mr. L. This time I went to see a Jungian psychoanalyst, and I tried to tell her what was happening to me, especially my relationship with Jung. Synchronicity has always appealed to me, the fact that some random things seem to bear the mark of the divine or of the supernatural, and the seal of strangeness in all cases. I often read works by Paul Auster who also noticed that. Strange coincidences had often happened to me in Montreal; Jung has stressed the importance of mandalas and considered Christ and Siddhartha as archetypes of man-god; men-gods and archetypes at the same time. One day after leaving the psychoanalyst, where I must have brought up the subject, I was walking on the sidewalk and I saw a huge mandala in the window of a merchant who was selling puzzles. Why did I then enter a furniture shop on the square before taking the subway? I have no idea. There was a beautiful modern couch upstairs, I instinctively looked at the label, it was called Mandala. I think this is when it really started. Later, in a flea market I bought a cross, a beautiful metal cross inlaid with orange stones. I also bought two books, The Lord of the Rings, and a book about the history of Christ. I remember after a period of meditation, or should I say connection, I opened the second book and came across these words : The fate of the man-god ... CHAPTER 18The fate of the man-god So that was it, so I was probably a man-god too. That's why I was feeling it. That's why I sometimes died. Because I was not made for this world that seems devoid of spirituality, that’s why I was constantly sinking. Finally everything made sense. Maybe I was a Buddha, anyway I felt presences, I was reincarnating, and I was sometimes retouching enlightenment. I had long been interested in Swedenborg, especially by Borges. At the end of his life, Borges, the myths man, who had become blind, held conferences around the world, and one of them was devoted to Swedenborg. Swedenborg had lived in Sweden under Charles XII and he had been an accomplished man, an eminent scientist, a kind of Da Vinci said Borges. One day he left everything behind to go and preach. Christ apparently had come to him to ask him to re-explain the message that had been lost. Swedenborg claimed to communicate with the angels, and gave descriptions of heaven and hell. He believed in the existence of angels and spirits on earth. According to Swedenborg we could not see the moment of our death, life continued as before, but little by little we meet new characters, angels and demons, and follow one or the other according to our nature, and penetrating into heaven or hell, which are actually mental states before being a place. Some called Swedenborg the Buddha from the North. There is actually some Bodhisattva in Swedenborg, the Bodhisattva being the one who helps others attain enlightenment. I was feeling the presence of the divine like a certainty. My life according to me seemed to follow logic, some works that had crossed my path: Jung also spoke of Swedenborg. And this strange novel I had written about a man who believed that he was communicating with his dead wife who had become an angel and who was guiding him using signs and synchronicities. This is a pseudonym: Benjamin Gano, which had been shortened to Bengano (the involuntary anagram being Ange bon in French – meaning good angel in English). These previous awakening experiences and passages; all of these could not just have been coincidences or my imagination. No, I had to believe. Yes everything seemed to be like evidences. For me there was a divine psychic space, our subconscious was connected to a collective subconscious with a much more important immortal story than ours. I managed to get a mini DV camera and I started recording, I needed evidence, I also remember talking about my suffering and crying. I knew at least this document would exist. I packed a bag, took my camera, the tapes that I had just recorded, a voice recorder, and various clothes and items. I did not know what to expect, but I would have the courage to live it, as my suffering had also prepared me for this. I was not afraid of anything. I went back to London, I don’t remember why. Life was elsewhere anyway. CHAPTER 19 Material detachment I took the ferry, like a short cruise. Then a coach to London. I was obviously in great shape. One of the first things I did was to rent a box in a storage company and pay for several months in advance. My recordings and camera were well secured. I spent several days at a hotel in Camberwell, as a homecoming, then in Elephant and Castle that I knew well. I saw Todd, one of my former flatmates, he now lived in Sweden but was back in London for a few days and we had dinner together. At Elephant and Castle my room was quite big and quite comfortable, and one night I had a "passing". It is very difficult to talk about mystical experiences, let’s say that this one, which was being recorded by my audio player, was one of the most intense. Sinking into meditation state I mentioned names like Jung and Swedenborg and with each name I seemed to reach another level. The next day I met a young Buddhist and his mother in the lift, they had come for a workshop at a nearby Buddhist centre, and were only staying for the weekend but the encounter did not seem to be mere coincidence. I often went for walks in the city, I was happy to be in London again. When paying for the new hotel my credit card suddenly stopped working and I had to call the agency in Paris to resolve the matter. I still had money in my account, not a lot but I still had some. A few days later however, I was kicked out quite violently because my card again refused to work, and it even got swallowed up by a distributor. I found myself penniless. Just after leaving the hotel with my luggage, by chance, I came upon a bank note on the ground that allowed me not to sleep rough that night. The following day, I was received in a boarding house run by Catholic nuns whose address had been given to me by the Salvation Army. All information provided by my bank to recover my money proved to be useless, they were wrong, the Credit Lyonnais had recently closed its liaison agencies in England and my advisor had not seem to be aware of this. It is my former bank here, Lloyds Bank HQ, which explained the problem to me. I started to look for a lawyer to get back at the Credit Lyonnais but without success. Now I knew what had happened, a security alert had been triggered by the fact that my card was being used abroad; they believed it had been stolen! The boarding house where I had ended up faced the Imperial War Museum and its Tibetan peace garden... unveiled a few years ago by the Dalai Lama ... it is a garden around an imposing stone mandala and an obelisk engraved with a message of peace for future generations. Was there such a mandala elsewhere across London? I don’t think so, and it was where I had ended up. Therefore I decided to consider the previous recent events and adventures as a necessary episode and as a further indication as to the accuracy of my intuition and my conclusions.The boarding house was men only. We were housed and fed and had to participate in household chores. There was a chapel, but we were free to participate or not in prayers. I tried to explain what had happened to me to the sister in charge of the place but she did not know about Buddha, only Jesus found favours in her eyes. The people she housed were from all nationalities and all beliefs. I remember a Portuguese guy who used to draw figures very similar to mandalas, and when he asked me for my name I told him to call me as he wished. He chose the name Sal and always called me that. I discovered later that the grove of Sal trees was where the Buddha had displayed his final teaching and had died. What happens then beyond our subconscious? How did he come up with this name? I often went to meditate in the park near the mandala. One night, while we were all sleeping in the dorm, I remember having experienced something strange, as if my body was suddenly falling, an intense sensation that seemed new and yet reminded me of something. I finally ended up sitting on my bed with my cross in my mouth while its cord finally gave in. I could not stay long in this boarding house, which was only an emergency accommodation, and I had to find another solution. As luck would have it, I received helped from a stranger who gave me the address of a squatting place in Deptford and I went there. Squatting is legal in England, you just have to find a deserted place and change the locks. The building in Deptford was a huge office building that had been cleared of its residents in view of demolition. A fauna of marginalised young people had taken up residence there, they had been living there for about a year now but expulsion was around the corner, and they let me stay there in the meantime. There were English, Spaniards and many Poles living there. The area was quite nice and close to the River Thames. I spent my days at the library reading religious books, but I also often went to the city by taking one of the last buses that allowed people to get in using the middle entrance and to travel without having to pay for a ticket. Sometimes controllers got in but just they just asked me to leave without causing me any more trouble. I think this is when I started to go regularly to the Radha- Krishna centre located close to Soho Square. How did I end up there the first time? I know it may seem strange or even absurd, but I think I had been led – guided - to it. I had already been living without money for several weeks and this involuntary material detachment did not cause me any suffering. At first, I tried to seek help by mailing some people who claimed to be my friends, but none had wanted to help me, and that was the only thing that made me suffer. I had nothing, nothing left, only the key to my rented box containing various recordings, which to me were worth all the riches of the world. Sometimes I ate, at random shall we say, some bread and butter in a club for the needy at Deptford called 999. I could also wash my clothes there and take a shower in another centre. I was never dirty or neglected. When I was around I could also have lunch with the sisters as a former resident, I could make a meal last for several days. Unknowingly I was living as a Buddhist ascetic, detached from material and feeding myself from offerings. I want to say that I did not know anything about Buddhism previously, apart from reading the Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse fifteen years before. By synchronicities of different encounters and some books in the library, everything I seemed to be needing in order to think about what was happening to me, seemed be given to me. When reading this book, many will think that I was crazy. Yet even today when I look back and write on this period, I think that coincidences alone would not have been able to explain all these facts because I quoted some but also forgot some. I still think that there was actually something divine in my adventures. CHAPTER 20 The state of the Buddha or the Buddha stateFor me, being a Buddha is a state before being a historical truth due to of the games of the supposed reincarnations. All or at least some of us have the potential to reach this state: a state of awakening and enlightenment. The term Buddha is often reduced to the 'historical' Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, the Founder of Buddhism, but the various schools of Buddhism recognise the existence of past and future Buddhas. I think the education of the said big vehicle also expects more than a thousand Buddhas. Early in my adventure, I wrote surprising texts, via what could be called automatic writing because they had also surprised me, where I called myself the Blue Buddha. And this was even before I had been confronted to the theory of the books in the library. I felt like I was in a particular state but I also had the ability to enter at will in meditation. I had not gone to England by chance, through their relationship with India and its culture I found a favourable atmosphere there, which would allow me to live my state of mind, and that's probably why I returned to London. The French would be surprised, for example, of the existence of the College of Psychic Studies, a charity. I went there twice to meditate. I think we need to ask ourselves what happened to Siddhartha or Jesus Christ, and why not psychologically if we do not want to take their word for truths. Yes, wouldn’t it be right to say that they had suffered from bipolar disorder, or at least of the manic state? Shrinks and men of bad faith would have made their life hard, but yet, what would be the conclusion of a shrink before them? What would be the diagnosis? I often visit a bipolar forum on the web and we have already asked ourselves the question, yes it is not uncommon for a sufferer of bipolar disorder in the manic state to think that he is God or that he is carrying a mission to save humanity, or that he is Christ. So why not consider Christ as a sufferer of bipolar disorder? A manic-depressive who had managed to live his condition to the fullest. And the passion of Christ and the Way of the Cross are somehow reminiscent of melancholia, or at least a metaphor for it. The manic state is such an illumination, and it can rapidly seem divine. The way it is hindered or not by the world in which it appears will determine its destiny, its inclusion or not in the current reality, the surrounding reality. Wouldn’t Siddhartha and Jesus Christ be manic-depressive who have succeeded? Succeeded in what? First of all they were able to live with their state of mind. And then of course to manage to leave such traces of their passage. The person suffering from bipolar disorder is a kind of hero as he is often alone against the world, to be with God therefore gives him companionship and a reason to live. Having said that Jesus Christ had suffered from bipolar disorder does not change anything for me about the fact that he was the Son of God. Just like, to be suffering from bipolar disorder does not change the fact I may or may not be a Buddha. What is the real difference between the manic episodes that I experience and the enlightenment of the Buddha ? Is it the fall? ... Sometimes I had moments, which I will call connections, such as hearing voices. Sometimes it happened to me in the library, or while drafting some piece of writing. In the course of one of my last nights in the Deptford squat, something extraordinary happened to me. There were several rooms; I think it was in the afternoon; the flat was big and very high up and in one of the rooms laid an old chair and a mattress. I found myself in this room; the sun was shining into it. There, the voices multiplied. I was not afraid, I was never afraid. And suddenly in this flood of voices I heard a voice say, "Buddha!" The large window rotated on its horizontal axis at the same time, thus encircling me with light in one moment: the voice and the enlightenment. Then I fell asleep. The next morning, the room was "turned over". The mattress was folded and the chair had been placed on top of it. This apparently had happened during my sleep and judging by the fact that entering someone else’s flat is forbidden, this makes it a total mystery. Sometimes I thought of particular things. I thought there was a trace of every event in every place. A memory of every scene and every scene had karma. Some spirits may attend the scenes. I thought I had achieved enlightenment. CHAPTER 21KrishnaI spent my time walking around the city, and reading in the library. One day I stumbled across the Swedenborg Society, which I had heard of, and talked to the curator who kindly let me open a few originals. I was often around Soho Square because the Radha-Krishna temple was found there. The entrance was free and I immediately felt very comfortable there. How did I end up there? By chance shall we say, although this was without a doubt the continuation of my path, because to anyone who asked me, I said I was a Hindu and not a Buddhist. For Hinduism and the Hare Krishna movement, which the temple belonged to, Buddha, is like Krishna and Rama, an incarnation of the god Vishnu: the seventh is Rama, the eighth is Krishna and the ninth is Buddha. A tenth one bearing the name of Kalki is expected. Although according to the movement, Krishna had been Buddha as well as Lord Chaitanya, the golden avatar: Krishna himself thus returned to India about 500 years ago and the movement represents the succession. I found in Krishna both a role model and a God. Sometimes during meditation I thought about it, supreme reward, come to me. As I thought I was a Buddha, and I wondered if I could not therefore be an incarnation of Krishna himself, who had returned once again from the depths of time. I have no recollection of a past incarnation, but the representations of Chaitanya had always seemed familiar to me, I felt like I remembered him, like a very old memory, moreover I thought I saw myself as a blue Buddha and Krishna is always depicted in blue. All this may sound like pure madness, but the remaining questions nevertheless follow the logic of my questionings. I was looking for the truth, and in a humble way, although it does not seem like that, I was in search of my destiny. I loved seeing Kishor at the temple, a Bhakta devotee I suppose, in traditional clothing, he answered my questions with accuracy, fraternity and humility. I was a visitor like any other, coming here to pray or to attend classes or singing processions. I consulted the Bhagavad-Gita and sometimes attended readings of it. At the end of one of them Archita came to me and we became friends.Archita came from India, she had arrived in London recently to study computer science, she was married and her husband was studying in Australia. She worked at a Burger King close to the temple and whenever I went to see her, she would give me something to eat before we’d go to the temple together. We had a master-disciple relationship, probably because I was more than ten years her senior. We were also friends of course, but I had an influence on her because of my determination to make her understand how much she was succumbing to materialism here. I reset things straight for her and found ways to maintain her spirituality. She told me about India and Krishna. She had always lived in the consciousness of Krishna, it was her only religion. Sometimes I told her about Christ whom she did not know and we even went inside a Catholic church together one day. She took care of me as we take care of an elder or a brother by buying me travel cards so I could move around more easily and giving me blankets when the Deptford squat was finally destroyed and I was sleeping in parks quite often. Yes, when the squatting was destroyed I had to sleep rough several times, most of the time it was in Burgess Park where I went at night and slept like a baby. In the morning, dogs walking by and acting frantically around me would wake me up. Yet, one day, it is an Englishwoman who tried me to make me understand that I was in the way by placing a heavy stone on me. I also spent a few days on a boat with a weird guy who eventually attacked me. I also remember a night spent in an old cemetery and the fire that I had lit up in it to keep me warm. I had found a heated building hallway for when it was colder or raining, where I laid some newspapers on the floor and lied down without difficulty. I was happy; I think I had never been happier before. I had nothing, but I had faith, I had certainty. I often encountered foxes; there are foxes in London, and one day I saw a whole family with the little ones. Foxes roam about in certain areas at night, and they flee when they see people. Though, one day when I had been sleeping on the Isle of Dogs, a kind of island near Greenwich where there is a farm with animals of all kinds, it was a fox that woke me up by trying to bite my toe. It was not an attack, just curiosity I suppose. I also met Antonin during this time, a French guy. I remember one evening when we were at his place, I told him that sometimes I was Buddha and sometimes I was Krishna, and during our walks together I told him about Swedenborg. "I was more than a witness, I believed you and I still believe you.... ". He still tells me that even today... CHAPTER 22 WritingWriting. Writing is all I have left. To fight, to understand, to live, to try not to die. I feel like Scheherazade, I keep on going hoping to push back the moment when I will finish. Then there will probably be nothing left to keep me alive and prevent my brain from letting go of me forever. Yes, writing is all I have left to prove to myself that I'm not just a void. It’s also a way to show things that I've never been able to show. They will come later, no one has ever wanted to listen or hear them. I can only hope for web surfers to fall here by chance, but it's more than many and will never be less than nothing. Here I thank them. CHAPTER 23 Some encounters I had some unusual encounters during these months in London, or I should say that all the encounters I had were more or less unusual. Let's start with Ben; an Italian guy whom I met in Soho Square. It was always a pleasure to meet Ben, he was part of this category of mystical believers at the verge of a new spiritual era. 2012 is supposed to be a pivotal year in the history of mankind. Why 2012? Because December 21st of 2012 corresponds to the end of the cycle of the Mayan calendar (it is amazing how the representation of the Mayan calendars look like mandalas). For Ben and his friends, this corresponds to a reversal of the Earth's magnetic field and to changes of vibrational nature that only some people will be able to comprehend. I don’t know what to think of it, but we'll see. However, Ben was very friendly and acknowledged the fact that I could very well be an avatar. One day I was walking on the crowded Leicester Square chanting the Maha mantra (♫ Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare ♫) I came across to Swedish sisters who were on their way to a spiritual convention. We spent a nice evening together wandering along the South Bank: a moment that I would refer to as luminous. I think the most amazing thing was when that girl called me one day in the street and hugged me out of the blue as if we recognised in each other. One of her friends was with her, she made me realise with a smile that he did not understand, and he was not like us. Another girl, in Camden this time, complimented me on my aura, which apparently was beautiful. I must say that after my enlightenment I always felt like I was shining. Again, what to think of all of this? Is aura a reality that some people can actually perceive? Why not, it probably explains these meetings, these magical events. One afternoon, after a short nap in a square, a strange man came to me. He was wearing sunglasses and I could not see his eyes. He told me that he was a psychic. We had a strange conversation; I told him what I had read in a book about John Lennon. Yoko Ono had apparently tried to get in touch with him through a psychic, Lennon then apparently told her that all was well, and that he had killed Chapman in a previous life (Chapman being Lennon 's killer). I often saw Jimmy too, a homeless bearded man and a little filthy, for whom the concept of Karma was not a mystery. One night I followed him to a chapel that had become a squatting place, and various atypical thinkers were there. It was as if I had was meeting those who needed to meet me, or those that I needed to meet. As if something governed these meetings. The strange music of fate. CHAPTER 24 Leaving London The last few weeks I spent in London were in Deptford with a group of artists, they had built a large warehouse where they lived and had made me a temporary living area. A large and beautiful representation of Medicine Buddha was displayed in the main room (!) Another room served as a rehearsal studio for many bands. It was a very pleasant atmosphere. They led various projects including The Marching Band, a situationist brass band, we shall say. I actually filmed them during a long journey on Oxford Street. During the day I often went to Greenwich Park whose curves and valleys gave me plenty of space to meditate. Greenwich Park is beautiful. It was also at this time that I found a close by centre where people practiced Kundalini awakening. This story about Kundalini is important to me and I will get back to it later.Why I decided to return to France, I do not know. One day I took a train. After a break in a strange city where I slept in an abandoned building, another train took me to Dover. I explained to the English officials that my documents had been stolen (my passport had in fact remained in the box at the storage company) and that I was trying to reach my home country. They did not cause me any problem and let me travel on the ferry for free and I arrived in Calais: I was back in France after ten months of absence. CHAPTER 25 Calais Once again I had some strange luck: when I got out of the ferry, there was an old man there; I think he had been commissioned by himself to deliver some flyers to make the city known to newcomers. He showed me a temporary accommodation place where I could spend a few days, Le Toit (The Roof) and I headed there directly. It is a place for those who do not have a roof over their head; and we could, at the good will of the managers stay a few nights. The atmosphere was strange; the managers were quite pushy, and a bit bossy. There were only men, mostly young men. We slept on bunk beds and we were able to have our meals. Calais is a cold city; well that’s how I felt about it. During the day I encountered foreigners who only thought about crossing to England. Some told me about some small boats that were able to smuggle them in. I don’t know if it worked, but they were always here. I only stayed a few days and then I went to the bank. After their errors that had left me without any money in England, I thought I could finally draw some money from my account. But they told me that it was impossible without identity documents. I told them that I would file a complaint against their company and asked them to serve me this inability in writing. When I mentioned the word lawyer, the guy got immediately angry and I was unable to get the document. I'm just an employee, he told me, and his boss got equally angry and almost insulted me. What had I done? Trying to steal their money? Amazing nonetheless. There was no doubt about it, I was back in France. Later I made an appointment with a lawyer who told me that it would be difficult to attack the bank. At ‘Le Toit’ there was a quiet guy with whom I sometimes exchanged a few words. How did life, through chance, bring us together?? It’s a great mystery, I don’t remember if it’s the word Krishna or Karma that made him react but he then told me that he had memories of several of his past lives, or rather his past deaths: for example, one time he had drown, and other times he had been killed. He had nothing of a visionary; he was probably the most serene and the most educated person in that place. He told me that he had participated in strange ceremonies with one of his friends and that later he had discovered that his friend had killed him in a past life. He thought he was logically facing his Karma. He spoke of resurrection when I talked about reincarnation and also said that both of us had already known each other before. I wonder what has become of him; it must have been very difficult.Then I took the train to Manosque, there was no controller, then I hitchhiked to Oppedette, a small village in Haute Provence to try to find Vlady Stevanovitch, the author of that book about the Chi, which I had left in my flat. I thought it might be important, that even if I was not going for me, I was maybe going for him. CHAPTER 26 OppedetteIt was night-time; I was walking on some roads around Oppedette when the last car drove me to a place that usually housed tourists coming for an internship at the Stevanovitch centre. An elderly woman greeted me, mistaking me for a member of group, and gave me a room to sleep. I let her do it, as I was glad to have found a bed to sleep in. I think her name was Madeleine. The next day she realised the misunderstanding but did not made me feel guilty about it. I tried to see Vlady Stevanovitch but only his wife received me, him being sick, and so he did not want to see anyone. I learned later that he died a few weeks later. Maybe it would have been nice if I had met him. A man who had written a book entitled Monologue avec les morts (monologue with the dead) while meeting another one and sometimes feeling their presence, it might well have been on the verge of his death. I stayed one more night, which I spent on the nearby hillsides, as Madeleine had handed me a blanket. It was cold, and I was able to make a fire, which lasted well into the night, with some matches and some collected wood. Making the fire seemed to be a remnant of a primary instinct. I felt the presence of animals but was never bothered. The next day I saw Madeleine, thanked her, and then walked around this wild nature one last time and left. I followed my instincts, always fearless, I let fate guide me and lead me to Aix en Provence. CHAPTER 27 Aix en Provence There was an event that I forgot to mention, I think it was between Calais and Oppedette: I went to Lyon and I knocked on my sister’s door and she partially opened it without inviting me in. She gave me fifty euros to go sleep elsewhere. I slept elsewhere, outside on a small dirt road, and that's why I was able to eventually buy a sleeping bag in the market. It is by hitchhiking again that I went to Aix en Provence (a city-commune in the South of France). There was a statuette of Krishna in the vehicle that took me. Again: what was the probability of getting into a vehicle with a statuette of Krishna fixed to the dashboard? The driver had spent ten years of his life in India and now lived in Marseille. He dropped me near Aix. Aix is a beautiful city. A street bears the same surname as I. I've never seen a street with my name on it before, and after checking, it is the only one in France. It is a small street on the heights of the city, there is an exotic art store located on it. On its right, lies a courtyard where the shop owners had installed a big stone Buddha. A stone Buddha, in France, a street bearing my name ... the only street in France bearing my name...I spent the first night in a park near the university, but the place at night was a meeting point for homosexuals and I did not really like to feel these types of presences near where I was sleeping. Later I found a shed. Well, I don’t know if this is the appropriate word to describe just two walls and a roof. There was a trailer as well, and mattresses were piled up on it, and I slept sheltered in my sleeping bag. A white horse lived nearby in a fenced paddock. On my way back each evening I used to stop to say hi to him and give him a little stroking. In the mornings I went into a social centre where I was able to take a shower and have breakfast. Usually I had lunch there as well and took some provisions on Fridays in the Restaurants du Coeur (a charity that distributes food to the needy) who was also found at this same location. I only asked for foods that I could eat without utensils. For example, fruit and milk but also rice that I sometimes chewed at night when I was really hungry. At the bank this time, I was able to withdraw money with my signature alone. This proves the incompetence of the agency in Calais. I often went to the library where I could read and use the computers. I remember a history book: Voyantes, guérisseurs et visionaires en France (1795-1914) (clairvoyants, healers and visionaries in France) which was very interesting, and a series of books on alleged extra-terrestrial contacts. I spent the other parts of the days in the park where I had slept the first night, sometimes meetings with students, including a didgeridoo player who brought me to his home several times. I think I stayed several weeks. The weather was still beautiful, it was nice outside. At night I saw an orange star in the sky. Is this normal? Is there such a thing as an orange star? I thought it could have been put there by Krishna to help and accompany me. I still had my voice recorder and I often used it to record my thoughts. One particular evening, after one of these recordings, I saw a streak of light in the sky, just like a set of shooting stars, in a ball, in the dark sky. Did that actually happen? I do not know. I am still not sure. What I am sure of paradoxically is to have actually seen it.There are many churches in Aix en Provence and they give it a special atmosphere. You can also find statues of the Virgin Mary built into walls at random streets. I often went inside those churches, and I also attended Mass once and took communion. I joined a prayer group who met once a week. One Sunday, I hitchhiked to Marseille. At the harbour, while I was lying on the rocks and dipping my feet in the water, someone stole my bag containing a copy of Srimad-Bhagavatam and my voice recorder, a nasty surprise. I spent one night at the Samu Social (a humanitarian emergency service) in very poor conditions and then returned to Aix.With the money collected at the bank I decided to go see a psychic, perhaps it would help me. In any case I thought I had to try it. I took a train because it was outside of Aix and the psychic’s husband waited for me at the station. She had arranged a small room at her home to receive clients; there was a poster of Ganesha on the wall and other Hindu deities. "Oh dear, there’s a lot of people here!" she told me when I entered the room. Oh yes, there must have been people as I still had this feeling of being accompanied. She opened the back door of the room to let them leave. She also threw a shawl over her shoulders, as some seemed to go through her and that made her freeze. She told me lots of interesting things. She told me about my father "he came with a karma, and lived his karma, you don’t need to worry about this, you, you're a much older soul, just like your mother whom you had already known during your other lives," so she knew my father was deceased. I asked questions to which she responded by apparently questioning the "others". It went very well; she was very friendly and we seemed to have some sort of insider complicity. It was strange, it was like two unconscious or subconscious states that connect to each other and discuss something, almost regardless of their characters, characters that are then witnesses. She then told me about a woman that I would meet and who would help me progress differently. But I don’t think she saw what was about to happen, at least she did not tell me about it. CHAPTER 28 End of 2005 I think it was a SNCF strike that made me take the train again. Yes, there is no controller during strikes; therefore it's easier to travel without a ticket. So I took the train to Paris, then the RER (the Regional Express Network) to my mother’s house in Livry Gargan. I climbed the gate as well as the front door; I don’t remember whether I rang the door or not. The discussion was difficult, I tried to explain to her what had happened to me as best I could and share my enthusiasm with her: Yes God does exist! I'm probably a Buddha! We had to pray! Or sing the Maha Mantra! I think it scared her, furthermore our relationship had been broken since a thunderous separation from my side and I did not want her to treat me as if I was ill. I remember a scene in the garden where I was trying to show her that chance does not exist with the use of a small French-English dictionary, making her open the dictionary at random. I do not know what the result of her draw was but mine was the word "Wonderful." One day while still in London, I was at the library, at an important time, I performed a similar draw in a Korean-English dictionary and it gave me the word "God." I also had to tell her about the payment of my storage box in England, yes my stuff was at risk and I had no card to pay for it all, my recordings, camera, my radio broadcasts from Quebec, my passport with my permanent visa for Canada, and I forget, all my riches, everything I had struggled for these past months, all the evidence. With no card to pay for them, I wanted her to do so with her card in exchange for a transfer to her bank account. But she could not do it. Her bank had told her not to give away her credit card number online… Damn banks. It was becoming increasingly urgent as the English had threatened to destroy everything if payment was not made. I spent a night with her and then went back to Marseille where I made an appointment with a new lawyer, and it was expected that I would return to my mum’s house afterwards. The appointment with the lawyer was once again useless. I returned to Aix for a while and then took the train to Paris. When I got there my mother was not home, but she had left me a note and some money on the coffee table. The note said that two of my uncles had come by to see her and that she had left with them. There was enough money to do some shopping, so I went to a little supermarket to buy some groceries. I stayed alone in the house for more than a month. I also went to the flat that I had left, the rent had not been paid and it had been visited by bailiffs. I guess I had received tons of reminder letters in the mailbox because it had been changed and I did not have the new keys. I met the two young fishermen again; they were delighted to see me. I must say that I was in great physical shape, and one day when we went in the woods together I ran like I never had before next to their bicycles, and we had a great time together. In the flat, I found out that I had left behind very few items, and I found a book on Chinese tarot whose arcane power helped me to return into meditation mode. At my mother’s house, on the bed facing representations of Krishna I went even further, I saw myself in the reflection of the glass as if I had come back from another time, as if my many incarnations were appearing like shadows in front of me.One day, on a Sunday afternoon, while I was out on a walk in Paris, I remember coming across a second-hand market on Montorgueil street where they were selling various religious objects, such as representations of Christ and crystals, and I could not help but touch some of them, to feel them. A few days later, I found Christian in the same place, the market had left and there was going to be a concert there. I had not seen Christian for a long time; he and his brother Sandro had been my neighbors during my high school years in Seine et Marne. I had seen him very rarely since then. Seeing Christian again after touching the crystals, was another funny twist of fate. I was very happy and saw him several times after that, including at studio Z, which he often visited (again, I'm sorry to point it out, but what a coincidence! Before moving to London a few months earlier, I had gone into studio Z one day to see an exhibition, I had even left my signature, my mark). A group of young artists used to hang out there from time to time, they came from Maison Blanche, a "special" group shall we say as they had also been patients at Maison Blanche. It’s with them that I spent the New Year’s Eve, in the studio at first, where I ended up making them dance and chant Krishna around the table, and at the places of some of them. I remember when we left the studio we found ourselves on the Champs Elysées singing, there were plenty of people partying in the metro: the atmosphere was perfect. I remember that before leaving them and going back to my flat, I got into position and meditated among them. I spent Christmas with Christian and Sandro at their mother’s who had remained in Seine et Marne (a department located in the Ile-de-France region). During a walk, Sandro and I had a long conversion about the places where we had lived. I also remember a long walk I had with Christian and of the Christmas Mass that we attended. I took the train with Sandro, we spoke with wisdom, we find ourselves in each other in many ways, and Krishna was not unknown to him. What’s great about Sandro is that throughout all these years, he had followed a parallel path.A few days later my mother came back and this is where it all changed dramatically, and another reality caught up with me violently.CHAPTER 29 Reality and illusion "Reality is an illusion created by the absence of drugs"I quite agree with that, reality is a subjective concept. Much more than we think. We are all live in an illusion.And then there is a common thing known, the one that is imposed on us.Our view of the world could be different.The person in the manic state experiences another one without the use of drugs; he does not need it. Which part is reality in his illusion? Because reality (or even Reality should I say) perhaps does exist, and the fact that we are all under the illusion does not imply its non-existence.There is a part of reality I believe in the illusion of someone in the manic state, probably even more important than in others.In any case, it is this common illusion we bathe in or distort, that he tries to escape from. He detaches himself from it to enter another one. CHAPTER 30 The three blows My mother returned a few days later, in early January, I did not know where she had spent the holidays. I was in the shower and I heard someone, a taxi driver maybe or neighbor who had picked her up at the station. What happened next is a blur, the discussion quickly jumped back to the payment issue and she still did not want to hear anything about it. It was becoming more and more urgent. She insisted on her irrational fear about communicating her credit card details. I got irritated and gave her three sharp blows on the top of her head; of course it’s something I should never have done. She started to scream hysterically and I went out to calm myself down and buy some groceries. I think these are the only blows I've ever given to a human being, even for fun; I've never been a violent individual. These three blows were like knocking three times on hell’s door, three blows of revenge and of despair, and three blows probably written a long time ago, three blows of helplessness. When I returned from the stores she was not there and when I came out of the house two policemen grabbed me and handcuffed me and I found myself at the police station. There, they tied me up to a chair and I was informed that she had filed a complaint against me and that I would be held in custody. In the small cell, I managed to stay very calm and to meditate. The next day they asked me to see a psychiatrist or a lawyer, I asked to see both. The lawyer explained that he was not there to defend me in any way but just to make sure that the custody was taking place in good conditions, I explained to the psychiatrist the scene with my mother and he told me something like “ah mothers!” and I then I left again with the police. The custody period was then extended, and in the end I think I asked to see a psychiatrist again. I was making all the back and forth trips handcuffed, obviously. This time another therapist who seemed upset to have been bothered sent me to involuntary hospitalization. And I found myself in solitary confinement. In the evening the doctor in charge came to see me. I knew her, as she was the one who had sent me to the clinic twice before during my previous stays. When the door opened I was sitting cross-legged on the bed, I was very calm. In a moment she said: "You are not doing well at all Mr. Jobsquare, etc…” How could she come to this conclusion when she had only been here for a minute? I did my best to argue, but ended up staying about a week in solitary confinement. I did not complain, I asked to be able to write and so filled several pages a day, I wrote to her but I do not know if she ever read it. Then, they decided that they needed my room for someone even more troubled than me and so I got out of isolation to find myself in a dormitory. This is when everything turned upside-down. I still managed to find time to meditate but the antipsychotics they were giving me must have disrupted everything. I did not know what they were making me swallow, probably an unnecessary chemical straitjacket. The building was cramped, there was no yard for the patients, and an elderly man made cigarettes butts and shared them with me, so I started smoking again, and hunting for cigarettes became a daily activitiy. It was painful as it was always noisy, chaotic on both sides, patients and physicians. An old woman died in the shower, cardiac arrest. The doctor did not want to hear anything about my bank stories, she only saw the fact that I had left my flat without paying and that the debts had been accumulating. She decided to launch a procedure to request for guardianship to the guardianship judge in order to help me ... after two months the prefect finally removed the involuntary hospitalization and I was able to leave. But only for one day. Just in time for my friend to help me move out of the flat, and I immediately asked to be hospitalized again, I was not able to do anything, as melancholia had buried me deep once again, this prison had been the worse of them all and I fell back into an absolute nightmare. CHAPTER 31Here we go again I am once again faced with the challenge of recounting a phase of melancholia. Let's say, it's as if you were being tortured endlessly, carrying your body away, all your light sensations in exchange for other unbearable ones. Is the body carrying the psyche or is the psyche carrying the body? Both in fact, constantly. Living becomes unbearable, and everything collapses. Dying seems to be the only solution; suicide scenarios follow one after the other. And you are alone, alone with this pain, which cannot be told, as it is beyond words. Eating is an achievement, and you forget to wash yourself. Lying down, lying down all the time, playing dead, melancholia means dying and yet staying alive. The most frightening is that often you no longer feel psychically able to do anything; there is a brain dysfunction. Most of the time treatments do not make things any better due to their several unwanted side effects, of anxiety attacks, restlessness, and nausea. It seems that we will never get out of this situation, when you are so low, going back up seems impossible. It is a pain that one cannot imagine without having experienced it. It is sometimes difficult, for some people, to imagine depression, they are the lucky ones... Melancholia is depression to the power of ten, a steamroller that goes over your head and body. What collapsed this time were several things, as God was leaving me. I’m not saying that he did not exist anymore; I’m saying that He also then became powerless against such adversity. Buddha, from its Buddha, nothing was left, only memories that nobody wanted to hear. My family made me understand that I had gone too far and that I had to fend for myself. After a few days I was again transferred to the clinic I had left eighteen months earlier: here we go again. CHAPTER 32Clinic So I saw the funny doctor again, and while giving the impression of not feeling anything, he was able to manage the situation. Not the melancholia which was staying the same, but the family situation in my mind, clarifying the role of everyone, highlighting the realities and truths that I would never have been able to support on my own. My mother was doing the minimum service once a week by taking care of my laundry, it was already a lot, and she had come a long way since the assault. My sister came to see me once but she would not talk about what was important, and the encounter therefore lasted five minutes and I have never seen her again since. I started taking lithium again. I shared my room with an alcoholic patient who had copied my pace and almost never left his bed. He got up sometimes just to smoke secretly in the toilet or to take a few gulps of whiskey, which was hidden in his closet. We hardly had any conversation. Every morning, upon rising he would ask me "You slept well?" And I would answer,“Meh”. Life in slow motion was being lived by two characters. There is little or nothing more to tell, it lasted five months and nothing happened, very little changed. Five months lying down –or almost lying down -in bed, brooding, suffering, seeing no solution whatsoever, whether physical or material, to get out of it. The alcoholic gone, another one replaced him, then another one and again another one. Christian came to see me regularly and I sometimes went into the forest with the two young fishermen who had not abandoned me. I saw an expert psychiatrist who wanted to appoint a deputy to take care of my financial affairs. I was broken, stunned, and it was difficult for me to find any interest in staying alive. Yet I forced myself to go out and went into an Internet cafe. This is how I rekindled a relationship with a woman with whom I had started to communicate with when I was living at my mother’s. I had written to her following a message she had left on an esoteric website, this message was supposed to be prophetic, she said it had been dictated to her by what she thought was celestial bodies ... I was able to tell her everything, the feeling of being a Bodhisattva who had come back, and about my hospitalisation. I also recorded some audio messages for her with a new recorder, and it was she who invited me out to join her during her holidays in Rennes-le-Château. CHAPTER 33Arcana Leaving the clinic and taking the train again already represented a challenge.I took a night train, then a bus from Carcassonne to Cuiza (a commune in Southern France), Arcana was there in the morning, and she was waiting for me. I had collected my tent from my mother’s place and I installed it near hers in Rennes les Bains, in a small camping-site at the foot of the mountain. She knew, I had told her everything, but did she understand? No, no one could understand, but she knew. She was perfect, patient and loving. I was a pain in the neck however, almost frightened by the sun, I laid down a lot, and there was a “daily coma" period, where I was only a thinking head, lying on the ground.This went on like that, and she went looking for the treasure perched in "spatial -temporal cortex hidden in the mountains," the treasure of abbey Saunière she is fond of (do you know who is abbey Sauniere? What has he discovered?) We stayed there for ten days and then she asked me to come back home with her at La Baule. I had nothing, therefore I had nothing to lose, and therefore, I went with her. We’ve been living together for about seven months now. We are well accustomed to each other after all, and she is easy going and enjoyable. I am the one who learned how to curb her impulses, as the angels do not necessarily exist at home now, and we must think about the possibility. I'm starting to get better through writing this book in particular as it gives me a goal, I am telling my story, as if I needed to do it finally. I spent months lying down, sometimes I opened my eyes; I do not know what were days anymore. Besides, I have been feeling much better for the past few days, I've written a lot in a short time, it is certainly a good sign, I am pleased by the fact that I am starting to paint again, and something is trying to take shape. And yet I know that everything can fall apart, one week ago, there was nothing in my head. I know that this is fragile but I would be surprised to climb back up, really climb back up. I feel tired, aged, physically and mentally tired. What will happen next? Will Buddha wake up in me one day or the other? I do not know, I’d like to see a God decide. CHAPTER 34Before I was not a difficult child, I don’t remember doing any major foolishness, and don’t think I have done so. No one from the outside had ever complained about me, and at school I was always at the top of the class every month. Being at the top of the class was almost inevitable for me, the image of the one who is the top of the class coveys clichés to others and I think that being the best almost gave me a complex. But I thought that was the way it should be - in spite of myself, I was not doing it on purpose - and that it would always be like that. I was shy, but I had friends. One of them was the son of Yugoslav immigrants, Mathias, he was rather the bottom of the class. I have often searched the net for him later; I think he is the coach owner of racehorses, trotting horses. I was born in Clermont-Ferrand (a town in the heart of France). When I was born, tap water was from Volvic. We did not stay there though, we lived in Maine et Loire until I reached CP (year 1 of the English schooling system) and then we moved to Nevers until I finished year 9. My father was an engineer, proud of his success enabling him to feed his family without his wife having to work. Yet he was unemployed several times and this is why we normally moved to another place; where he got work. We arrived in Nevers (a region in central France) in a camper van, and we lived in the camper van until we found a house. I remember learning my first school lesson in the caravan, it went like that: "The Gauls knew how to farm, weave cloth, forge iron tools." I was in a private Catholic school, it was not particularly strict but there was catechism classes and regular Mass in the small chapel of the school. My father had attended the seminary; it was the only way for him to study, being the child of a large family. He had therefore taken the three vows, poverty, chastity and obedience. But then he had left. But the books that date back to this period show that he was still bathing in something very religious. This may explain why I found myself in this school. I believed in God, and every night I prayed with a beautiful rosary. I’ve received both communions, but not the confirmation. I had been a desired child and I think that they were very happy to have gotten this so-called choice of the king, a girl and a boy. My sister was four years older than me. The relationship with my mother was and still is particular. My parents were strict, order reigned in the house and blows would often come... He would do it but at times she did it too. I remember the day I stopped her hand for the first time, I had become too big, too strong for her. She understood and I understood that it would be over. I also remember the last beating from my father. I was a teenager, it was during a family party, and he had asked me to clear the table. I took all the plates but his. He stood up angrily and I knew he was going to hit me. I lay helpless on floor in front of everyone, and he kicked me. Most of the time the beatings came after I had argued with my sister, so it was always me who paid for it. Anyway, there's never a good reason to hit a child, it should not exist. This was from another time.The fact that my mother sometimes hit me obviously influenced the relationship we had. I loved her and hated her at the same time and it is still like that even today, and I seem unable to do otherwise. My father was different, it was more remote and I think I accepted more easily that he represented authority, unlike my mother. I do not blame him, I think of him often, and then I think that death does not really exist, and he can see me, and he's proud of my fights. But when we are kids, it’s not that simple. CHAPTER 35Suffering neither forgets nor even forgives My mother spent her life, especially my life, trying to counterbalance her fault. Unconsciously. Yes unconsciously because she forgot. Anticipating my needs in excess. I never really forgot it. Sometimes I talk during random encounters, about secrets. But always in a disturbing uncertainty. I'm sure, but I doubt. Repression. We could call it her defence system contagion, her negation, on me and my psychic development. She then did everything to look like or to be a good mother: helpful, protective and worried. Upsetting the situation. I had to build myself on this deception, on this unconscious attempt for redemption. But, as the title says, suffering neither forgets nor ever forgives. My pathos is great. And my estrangement, if there is an estrangement, alternative, inconsistent or destructive. How to build oneself between a muffled vengeful hatred and a natural filial love? I always thought that my mother was a nice person but I have also always hated her silently, unconsciously wanting to make her pay for her mistakes in return. This will end or eventually result in blows being given. I have sometimes spoken about it to some therapist, like a side item, which they never really dug into. But the more time passes the more I realise the importance of these facts in my development. I can work on it, but this late and necessary resurgence changes everything. Whether she remembers or not, I find a fault in her, which she cannot bear, which she cannot accept, which is logical since she has done everything to conceal it. During all these years I have tried several times to talk to her about it. It is possible that she really has forgotten.One should not reduce bipolarity to one simple genetic disposition, if someone suffering from bipolar disorder is highly- sensitive, this sensitivity has often been put to the test in his or her life; there are often predetermining life factors which is the cause of the outbreak of the disease. Wikipedia tells us that one can find, in every other patient suffering from bipolar disorder, a notion of sexual and or physical abuse during childhood. CHAPTER 36 The letter from the camp The camp ... I was eight years old. It was me who had wanted to go and it wasn’t going well. What was happening? I had no idea but I did not like it. I was not comfortable with all these kids and this coaching. I have a very vague memory of it. There were long walks in a row to go to the beach; there was singing, and a workshop to make enamels. But, I was not enjoying it. As all mails to our parents were read before being sent I decided to write my letter secretly and to post it on my own. Mathias wanted to do just like me; so Mathias was there too. I wrote a letter to ask my parents to pick me up because I was unhappy ... There was a formula that I will never forget "if you prefer money to the love of your son..." because I was aware that they had paid for it and that they would lose money. Wasn’t the love of their son more important? I managed to post the letter, and Mathias posted his too, but the organisers got wind of it and I think they wrote a letter as well. Our parents met, and my parents went to see Mathias’s parents to discuss and to make a decision. The decision was not to pick us up. I remember it very well, me as a child in that schoolyard that had welcomed us. I was walking, I was sad as ever, so I vowed to never trust them again, and whatever they might say I would always remember that. I was alone now and I would have to live like that. The camp eventually finished without me having any more memories of it and I went home. I then tried to address the subject with my mother, who told me that she thought that this letter had been written with the help of an adult, as it was too well written, and a child could not have done that alone. Not only had they left me there, but they were also underestimating me, they did not understand who I was: this letter had been the most important event of my short life, but I did not say anything.Everything was different afterwards, this episode had marked a boundary in my childhood, I started to feel ashamed of my mother, I did not want other children to see her, I had a habit of not wanting to use any cutlery previously used by them, my parents, and even my sister, a kind of aversion to their saliva. Yes, in my head, I was now alone.My school performance did not decline, but I felt like I had left childhood in favour of nothing else, obviously. Yes I still say today that this event has marked the end of my childhood. And it was probably when I had my first depression. Yes I got depressed for the first time in this camp, and nobody had wanted to help me. CHAPTER 37 Gynecosmatia My teenage years had been a sad period. I had grown tall physically and I was not sure what to do with my body. Tennis helped me, it’s a game that is a sport, I played a lot of tennis. I often went to the cinema; I used to dream there, I was a dreamer. Years passed and gynecomastia appeared. Do you know what gynecomastia is? Breasts. Breasts grew on me. At first, they were two strange little balls that I tried to crush with my fingertips, but then they got bigger. At first I saw a doctor who said it was normal. Yet they became abnormal. I always hid from others; no one was supposed to notice. It was a true obsession. I dragged this awkwardness around for a long time, about five years, it had structured things within me, such as behaviours, and it had built a personality of avoidance and withdrawal. It’s a doctor whom I went to see because of gastric trouble who pointed the problem out. I made an appointment with a specialist in Paris. He did not take me seriously at first, and then I showed them to him and was soon operated on. I still had surgery stitches when I returned in advanced mathematics; and they removed them ten days later. This gynecomastia had made me feel even lonelier; it had delayed me from having girlfriends and experiencing sex. I thought I was finally released, and that life would finally begin. When Florence arrived I had a lot to catch up with, and much to make up for, and this is also why this story was so intense. Florence? Florence is the seventeen year-old girl I mentioned in my first paragraph, I have made the loop now, and I think I've told you everything. Remember that there are lives that you don’t even suspect. Don’t forget me. Buddha or not Buddha...I am Arthuro Jobsquare or Buddha O, it depends. CHAPITRE 38 Kundalini The problem of someone suffering from bipolar disorder in the manic state is that he does not find explanations for what is happening to him in traditional reality. Because something is really happening to him. This is not a product of his imagination. Yes, his senses gain in intensity and often in a way that seems too incredible to him. It seems that people want to assimilate mania to madness when it is first and foremost a real psychic experience that seeks and needs direction. No newspaper or psychiatry can explain to him what happens then. And meaning, the person in the manic phase needs meaning. He will sometimes find it in esotericism, magic or mysticism, as according to him, they are the only things that can explain these phenomena. He cannot live with what is happening without finding meaning to it. This is when he will often lose himself and particularly alienate himself from others, even if he may be right: it may be that he’s the one sensing a reality that we do not know yet. I was lucky enough to come across events that fit in strangely to what my own findings had led me to believe. The events consolidated my thoughts. Treating someone in the manic phase should not be reduced to administrating neuroleptics or antipsychotics, rejecting any idea of the mysticism in favour of an alienating reasoning. The existence of the Kundalini in particular could be a necessary path of reflection. I'm not the first to look into this hypothesis and one can find some literature on this subject on the net. Kundalini is a supposed concentration of energy nestled in the lower back. There is reference to its existence in Buddhist, Hindu and Islamic traditions. With the help of certain exercises one can awaken this energy, but a release, which is too sudden, could create a possible psychosis in the subject, as the release of this energy is normally progressive throughout life. It can also release itself suddenly and uncontrollably or disproportionately if it’s under intense emotions. The body is energy, present or absent, physical or mental energy. Working on the harmonisation of these energies seems like a good idea to me. After my first melancholia phase I was stooping, and my psychiatrist prescribed me back massages in order to strengthen my muscles. I have fond memories of these massages that seemed both to relax me and free me from various physical and mental tensions. So why don’t I try to alleviate or even cure my melancholia through massages? The person suffering from melancholia does not only suffer psychologically, but he also suffers physically. And why not help the one suffering from a maniac episode? Obviously, treating bipolar disorder in this way - and why not all the depressed souls - would almost be revolutionary, but why not try? Where is the risk? It would obviously quite snub the pharmaceutical industry that makes millions off these pains and sufferings. CHAPTER 39 The ego or my unfulfilled Self Bipolar disorder, a disease of the ego or a disease affecting the ego? The Self is trying to fulfil itself, but does the unfulfilled Self finally destroys itself to be able to change and adapt? How to cope when the Self is not valued, when it does not exist in the outer sphere, the outer sphere: the others and society, the person suffering from bipolar disorder and every man must find a social position in this outer sphere. A social position that man must achieve for his Self to exist and to balance his ego. When the Self cannot be fulfilled, what becomes of the ego? Its swells up, and the bipolar sinks into mania, or he is fulfilled in favour of melancholia.Isn’t the ego - which swells up in the person during manic episode - related to the fact that this person lacks recognition and that the Inner Self of the individual isn’t able to survive? He then sublimes himself, a kind of last stand of honour. An artist who does not break through, a writer who is able to create but does not find readers. Should they choose to give up, and lose the Self, or should they engage in a process of incompatibility that will make the ego lose every bit of its shade. What have bipolar disorder sufferers dreamed of? Haven’t they dreamt of a destiny that is much too big? How has their ideal Self been developed?Disease of the ego or disease of affecting the ego. There’s another question that I’m asking myself at the moment, are there any bipolar disorder sufferers who never get sick? Before my first fall and the event that has triggered it, I can say that I was already bipolar. If this event had not occurred, would I have fallen anyway? Or would I just have had my intense temperament and live in perfect agreement with it? Imagine clones of me, living differently, not undergoing the same events, will they all fall ill? And above all what will become of those who do not fall ill? Would they have a great and intense destiny?What is the Self? It seems deeply rooted sometimes but sometimes and more and more often it seems to me that it is an unfortunate and helpless result of facts that determine it and shove it, and that kill it. CHAPITRE 40 A day at the temple One day in the temple when I was sitting, a young man - nearly upset - came to see me. He sat beside me, and what was surprising was the fact that he had not removed his shoes. Who was that? I welcomed him in my proximity circle. He said that he had to talk to me and he pointed to me, the name of Srila Prabhupada on the book I was holding, as if he was referring to himself. What I told him calmed him down, I don’t recall what I replied to him exactly, but he left and seemed somehow satisfied with my answer. Looking back I came to the conclusion that this guy had nothing to do there and that's why he had come in with his shoes on and was eager to talk to me. It seemed to me that he could have been a lambda whose spirit of Srila Prabhupada could have grabbed for a few moments in order to meet with me. Life is a temporary madness, madness is a temporary life. I am Arthuro Jobsquare or Buddha O, it depends.Please leave a comment on Amazon hereI wrote this book to change people view on bipolar disorderI am willing to participate to conferencesYou can write to me at nemopode@gmail.comThank you for reading

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1 Entonnin Arto = "I believe that I am an avatara of Krishna'snot a 100 % onea partial oneI can communicate with Him throught feelings (God is first a feeling, second a way) and language too, Yes He answers to meIn meditation he can come inside meread my storyHare KrishnaJaya Sri KrishaBook Here"
2 Enakshi Ganguly = "Bipolar Disorder in Adults"
3 Enakshi Ganguly = ""Nina Nikolayevna Berberova was a Russian Empire-born writer who chronicled the lives of Russian exiles in Paris in her short stories and novels."Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nina_Berberova"
4 Enakshi Ganguly = "Research Work on Borges"