Memories

(Português) XXVI – A loucura é a sanidade travestida de felicidade e prazer

Publicado por Bill Braga
Data da publicação: 02/12/2022

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A história de um homem mau

Publicado por Sebastião Verly
Data da publicação: 15/11/2022

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XXV – Metamorphosis

Publicado por Bill Braga
Data da publicação: 02/11/2022

Going out was a way for me to socialize. But at the same time it reflected in me my greatest fears and anxieties; the fear of loneliness, the results of the medication, and their terrible side effects. Going to the bathroom was a challenging ordeal. My genital organ and I having to confront that urinal. It was as if my ghosts were all standing there watching me. Nothing… I grew tense, and the liquid with the excrements o...

Bar do Portuga – III

Publicado por Sebastião Verly
Data da publicação: 17/10/2022

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No Bar do Portuga II

Publicado por Sebastião Verly
Data da publicação: 10/10/2022

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XXIV – Me hunting myself

Publicado por Bill Braga
Data da publicação: 08/10/2022

So here I am once again, expunging my post-Pinel pains. Yes, it happened again. But wait, before I tell you everything that happened in this new crisis, or outbreak as the men in white would say, I should tell you the previous details. The in-between, everything that happened between these two hospitalizations. Between opening that gate, my eyes tearing at the sight of freedom, and today, where I find myself “imprisoned” a...

XXIII – Before and After Pinel

Publicado por Bill Braga
Data da publicação: 16/08/2022

  It’s amazing what pretenders madmen and poets can be. Fernando Pessoa was right. While pretending to tell of their pains they pretend to purge them, to adequate themselves, to succumb to mediocrity. And everyone, even they, eventually come to believe in their pretending, a mere artifice of the rhetoric, mere creation. But in pretending their pains don’t just draw off. In the catharsis of telling, although pretended,...

XXII – Resisting Psychiatrical Dominance

Publicado por Bill Braga
Data da publicação: 15/07/2022

There is nothing more to say about the dull monotony of my jail days in this mental health clinic. Not the guitar, not even having met Fernanda, not anything appeases the pain of being… Because the pain is not of being or existing, but from being unable to fully exist, of living like a bird with clipped wings and chains round its feet. Not to mention the barred cage preventing even the slightest attempt of taking flight....