Very deep …

It’s a very peculiar situation, Darras. I don’t know how to defend myself. And I certainly don’t know how to relate to the truth. I even think that I should just stay quiet here, since nothing that I say can bring about any change of situations. It’s like what I’m doing here is being done for no particular reason, but only in spite of everything. — ‘Cause here I am, acting like some fucking idiot, carving out strange declarations and vivid exclamations and thrusting it all straight at this Great Wall of Babylon which is the Internet. What am I expecting here? Some ragged form of justice? — Maybe that’s what I’m dreaming of? I honestly don’t know.

“If I were you, my dear friend and employer, I would certainly allow myself to dream of what you called some ragged form of justice. It’s the very least that is required of any person who still believes in the value of life. And you know that I’m against all forms of forced death. Suicide is never a good advice, as I see it.”

Even if life is a living hell? Even if I know that a whole lot of medical doctors have decided to join together and do whatever it takes in order to make me commit suicide? You know, that’s what it feels like.

“I understand. Now, please tell me more about what happened to you in Oslo. That doctor.”

Dr. Dickson.

“That’s his name, yes. A good name for a man assigned to the dirty job of castrating you, don’t you think?”

Heh, yeah. — I was thinking that much immediately, as soon as I realized that I was being conned here, for some odd reason. You see, I’ve got this mathematical model of the logics of population explosion in the back of my mind at every given time, and I guess it must have something to do with the way people are choosing to treat me. Like a monster of some sort. This kind of guy who do not believe in God’s original decision to allow for fifteen children per woman, as a matter of personal decision and free will. And I thought. — I don’t know what I thought? That humanity would become normal again? If ever it was normal? I doubt it. But I’m a very naïve person, so I figured that all the silly mistakes would be taken away, out of my life, at some given future point in time. I guess I must be the all time most stupid fool in the history of the galaxy?

“Yes.”

Hm! Yes!! Now, you think I should tell you more about this doctor, is that so?

“That’s indeed so.”

You know, I’ve said this before. From the way he acted as he was sitting there, like a fool, not being able to lift the pen off the table and put his signature to the medical journal, I could tell that something was absolutely wrong. He even stared at me and said that the HIV diagnosis was good news in terms of my disability pension application. He simply had to say that thing, only in order to make himself able to lift the pen off the table and sign the damned paper. It was all so obvious. I understood, straight away, that the diagnosis was a fake.

“I hear you. But how can you be so certain?”

Body language. He appeared to be extremely uneasy about the whole situation. He acted like an otherwise chummy uncle who was about to perform a task which was very uncomfortable to him. In order to be able to do this task — the task of signing a paper confirming that I am HIV positive — he simply had to explain to me that it was actually good news, too, and that in terms of my personal economy in the future. It would be much, much easier to get a disability pension if I applied for it on account of a physical condition, and not exclusively on account of mental or psychological problems. That’s what the man said. Only after he had said that was he physically capable of lifting the pen off the table!

“It sure doesn’t sound right. But still. I don’t know.”

The situation is rather odd. I shall be the first person to admit that. But nevertheless, I swear that I’m telling the truth. And as several hospitals spent the latter part of 2007 giving me good additional reasons to doubt the fact that I’m really HIV positive, I’m telling you: my whole life is a case of psychological torture on a daily basis. Sinve last summer I’ve been re-tested for HIV twice on some doctor’s order, in Bergen and in Haugesund, and I was offered a third test last automn, here in Bodø, as I was hospitalized with a suicidal psychosis again. A nurse at the mental hospital here in Bodø said that no information concerning this HIV infection of mine was mentioned in my journal, so they wanted to take another test. This time I refused. I had been disappointed twice already, and let’s face it: there is probably no possible way for the health care system of this country to actually admit to the fact that I’ve been set up and framed in such a way as this. This is not a fascist state, now is it?

“It’s just so utterly unbelievable, that’s all. It defies all logic; all normal criterions of reason.”

Of course it does.

“Sure. Now, I can also understand that you are somehow running out of time here. It’s as if a clock is ticking here, and ticking fast, if you know what I’m saying?”

I do.

“I hear you, and I understand that we’re dealing with existential things here. Now, I’m not going to act as some shrink here, but you know: people are concerned. Two of your American internet friends have actually said that much in e-mails to you, making inquiries about the state of things. Now, both of them know that you are hospitalized, and in the mind of other people this is not a small thing.”

That’s true. But I’ve been in and out of mental hospitals for several years now, and I’ve come to realize that nobody cares. My view of society is seriously skewed. I used to believe that it had something to do with social justice. Society, I mean. That it was equally concerned about the well-being of all of its members. I’ve been so naïve. I’ve always been too naïve. But here I am thinking that the human family has finally decided to do itself in anyway, and now I am thinking of the global warming, the manmade climate change, the deforestation, the desertification, and all these other ecological dilemmas. The fact that there is virtually no sign of a change to the better. Not anywhere. — And then there is the social fact that everyone is turning their backs on me. Like I’m supposed to be an evil person for believing the the world must be saved, somehow, from such a lot of the actions of the combined human species. It doesn’t mean that I’m an evil person! I mean: am I an evil person?

“You’re not an evil person.”

But Nunu certainly has every reason to believe I’m an evil person. It’s all because I told my family what my Swedish doctor told me a while before he was actually going to put his signature to my journal and found it impossible to do so without explaining to me first that it was all good news, in a sense, in terms of my application for a disability pension. Money-wise, so to speak. Good news, he said. Money-wise. That big creep.

“I see.”

It was only when he found it all that hard to pick the pen up from the paper that I realized that I was being framed. I understood that it had something to do with the fact that I was hospitalized with an existential crisis. I understood that it had something to do with revenge. I understood that it had everything to do with pure evil. But I don’t know how to say this to you. There’s always something. Something odd. Something strange. Something very deep and spiritual. Something that we do not have a language for. Strange little signals that we are constantly sending to each other. Every hour of the day. All the time. Like the mammals we truly are. And as the predatory mammal species which we most certainly are. Dogs of war and serial cannibals.

“Very deep.”

Indeed very deep. Now, about what happened between me and that woman — Nunu is her name — it was all so spiritual, you see. It was almost as if we belonged together, her and I. We just fell in love with each other as soon as we had had our first cup of coffee together, at Dikselen in Haraldsgata in Haugesund; this little town in the south-western part of Norway to which the Norwegian government had forced her to move. It was mandatory, as she said. She didn’t know anyone in Haugesund, and this was what Mrs. Grønning was thinking, as she got to know that Nunu had been relocated from Stavanger to Haugesund. Nunu is a refugee, you see, which means that her whole life for that simple reason is controlled and directed by the Norwegian foreigners’ administration. Now, Mrs. Grønning knew that I lived in Haugesund, and thought of the two of us as two troubled souls who could do well together. As friends, but not as lovers, of course, as my mother had already told her that I had been diagnosed as HIV positive.

“Okay?”

Yes. Here’s the problem. The fact that I had already told my family about my diagnosis. They were never going to buy the idea that I am not HIV positive after all. No matter what this big creep, Dr. Dickson, working at the psychiatric ward of Ullevål University Hospital in Oslo, had said about the good news of the diagnosis, and no matter how many times I were to tell them the story of the man’s behaviour as he was preparing to sign my journal. Because things like these simply do not happen. Not in Norway in any case. Maybe in Libya, but not here. Maybe in El Salvador or Honduras, but definitely not here!

“I hear you.”

So of course I knew that I would have to tell Nunu. As soon as I possibly could. Even though I was using a condom, and even though. Even though! Everything, if you know what I’m saying? Everything!

“Ehem.”

Yes! It’s just too fucking impossible to make this right! Because it wasn’t right. I wasn’t totally honest with her. If I had tried to be totally honest with her from the start. –

“M.”

Yes. M. So what happened was this: after spending a month in her company, I called the police and had them take me to the psychiatric hospital in Haugesund. I was suicidal at the time. And I was thinking that the best thing for me to do was to seek specialist attention. I had Nunu come and visit me at the hospital. I told her that I had been diagnosed with HIV, and that was it, really. Then I had to force her to go and get herself tested, even if I knew that she would probably not be infected anyway. Then the Swedish doctor at the hospital — Dr. Nielsson — forced me to sign a piece of paper indicating that I was HIV positive. After which the hospital personnel started to act crazy. I ran away from the hospital. The police found me in Bergen. I told my mother about Nunu, and I also told her about the way I was being treated by the hospital people back in Haugesund. The treatment I received was absolutely horrendous. As a matter of fact, the most senior doctor at that hospital ward, Dr. Nielsson, asked me why I didn’t travel to Iraq in order to join Al Qaida on the battlefield against the American soldiers. It’s true! That’s what the doctor told me! I’m not kidding. It was crazy. And when I say that I ran away from the hospital, I’m actually telling a white lie, as the fact of the matter is I was chased away from the premises. I was treated like The Devil Himself. I hate to say this, but it is actually psychological torture I am experiencing here, every day. I don’t believe I can take it much longer. At least I do know that I need to get the truth out, and off my chest, and do so with some immediacy. This is what I am doing, here and now, talking to you, my dear Darras, as I can see you … all so somber, on the other side …

“Well, that’s what I’m here for. Since you have no other person around you. Nobody who is willing to listen to you. Nobody who believes you. Nobody who thinks that you’re not a freak of nature but an ordinary person like you and I, so to speak. Which you aren’t. As you have all these spiritual issues on your mind all the time. You know what I mean?”

Yeah, I know. But let me just tell you, straight out, that if it wasn’t for the fact that Dr. Dickson decided to fake a HIV diagnosis up for me, I’d still be living in Haugesund, I’d still be loving Nunu, and I’d still be thinking of life as something odd worth trying out for a while, and not to be ended anytime soon. As it is, right now, I’m not all that certain. Is it worth it?

“Maybe it is?”

Uh, yeah. Just maybe. But I think too much, and that’s another topic.

- — – — – — – — – — – —

If you want to know what it is like to be working under a system that has gone evil on the world, you should definitely read up on Steve Milgram’s psychological experiment. -