If you ask anyone in the psychiatric world if they can actually fix all the crazies they’ll tell you that progress is constantly being made. Sometimes, if they’re real honest people, they’ll tell you that there are some things that probably can never be cured. But that’s always the evil stuff, like psychopathology and sadism. And those guys don’t deserve to be cured, anyways.
But if a mother asks whether they’ll fix her broken kid, you know; stitch the wounds together, cover the scars and give her cute white pills, they’ll tell her sure they will. They’ll never tell her that her sweet, cute, poor, lovely little daughter is gonna die ‘cause she can’t handle life. They’ll fix her.
And that’s just the depressions. It’s mostly true, with them. The little pills and the compassionate therapists fix it all and the little girl will laugh again in a few months.
It’s a hell of a lot worse when it’s real madness.
When the families ask the doctor as soon as they’re out the door, still able to hear the pounding on the walls and the frantic screams, if their dear Henry, or John or whatever is gonna be all right the doctor never says no. He never tells them that sweet Tommy’s soul is so ripped apart, torn open and just generally fucked up that there’s no way in hell they can fix it completely.
If they stuff him full of pills and give him EST and make him project his childhood fears onto inanimate object he might just stop screaming one day. He won’t tear his eyes out rather than see the things that show themselves to him and he won’t pound his head against the floor to stop the pain. If you’re lucky he’ll know who he is.
But he won’t be fixed, not really. There’ll always be holes in him that are either empty or he just doesn’t dare look down into. There’ll always be the scars from when he jumped from the second floor and banged his ankle against a bicycle stand or when he got hold of a razor and he’ll always freeze in panic if someone asks about them ‘cause he hid them for so long.
That’s just the way it is.
But they’re never gonna tell you to your face. They’re never gonna tell you about how much it fucking hurts to glue a broken soul together. They won’t tell you they tied darling Johnny up and took away his stuff ‘cause he didn’t want to live no more. They won’t tell you how he shouted when they made him live another day.