More Inspiration from tha Youtube Film - And a Scene I Ask our Imagination to Fill In

Left:  My interpretation of what MIGHT be going on - or what WOULD be going on if it came from the plot of one of my earlier books, such as the INSTITUTIONALISED series.  Click to enlarge.



Incidently, the term ‘harassment therapy’ is NOT something made up by yours truly but does actually exist in reality, or has done in the recent past. Google it and see.

But now I'd like you to call on you to do a little work yourselves.  I want to call on you to imagine a change of scene. It is perhaps sometime later in the day. I'd like you to imagine a girl in her late teens who has done nothing wrong but has found herself incarcerated in an East European psychiatric institute (for now it is better you don't know how or why). She is in a straitjacket. She has just been frogmarched into the institution psychologist's 'consultation room' between two female orderlies, stout middle-aged women in white button-through dresses with leather-belted waists and hats that look like something a chef or cook might wear and more at home in a kitchen or butcher's shop.

The room is bare, stark, and decked out like a police interview room, right down to the two-way mirror lining the top half of one of the whitewashed walls and the the twin-deck cassette recorder arranged to one side of the grey-white Formica-topped table she has been seated in front of. Four large, old-fashioned CCTV cameras stare down accusingly from high up in the corners, each with a red light blinking on and off, presumably recording her every move.

Before retreating outside, one of the women unbuckles her belt and slips it out from around her waist, doubling in it over and leaving the supple, broad, brown leather belt folded on the tabletop alongside the thin rattan cane which was already there. The girl is left alone to stew in her own juices seated on a high-backed hard wooden chair whose seat is somewhat too short, from front to back, to fully accommodate her full bottom. The girl's back is to the door and she faces the deep, comfortable, black leather chair on the other side of the desk on which eventually the 'therapist' will sit once she arrives, sinking back and kicking of her heels, as is her habit. Beyond that is the high-mounted rectangle of thick glass blocks which constitutes the window, deeply inset behind a barrier of thick wire mesh and with the shadowy outline of the bars on its exterior showing through as the only reminder of the outside world.

The silence is near-complete, to the point of feeling almost like pressure on the ears, liking wadding pressing against her eardrums. It is broken only by a slow metronome-like tick, like an old wall clock or a grandfather clock some way off in the distance. It is the only thing that provides any notion of the passage of time – that, and the growing saddle-sore numbness in her behind on account of the hard chair and its seat which is slightly domed towards its centre, increasing the discomfort. But she knows from experience not to fidget, not to look around herself, at her surroundings, but to face forward sitting ramrod straight – there is no way of knowing who is watching through that two-way mirror or is seated before what she imagines to be a bank of television security monitors some place...  It eats away at her nerves, eats away at her from inside.

(Right - I couldn't find a picture of a girl in a starightjacket receiving a thrashing with a belt)

She knows when the woman finally comes in she will do so quietly. She may not even hear the door open and close, might only become aware of her presence through the rustle of her clothing, the whisper of her stockings or tights and the soft click of her heels on the lino. But she resists the temptation to peer back over her shoulder, fights back the growing tension in her stomach, tries not to look at the implements of chastisement sitting on the table top in front of her... and slowly but surely, as the worry lines etched across her young brow deepen and the tension mounts, she begins to break herself down, psychologically eating away at herself from the inside. Only when the tears have begun to flow in earnest does she become aware of movement behind her back, then of the woman bustling past, taking her seat, arranging the clipboard she carries and slapping the heavy file down on the table with a heart-stopping dull thud, kicking off her heels under the table.

The therapist wears a white coat and is the only one in the institution who can speak or understand English. She is also the only one who knows the girl's true identity, how she came to be there and – importantly – the reason she is being held; and even the girl herself doesn't fully understand that!

The therapist is combative from the start. Among other things the girl is being accused of promiscuity or promiscuous behaviour and of compulsive masturbation and is being interrogated as much as interviewed. She is being aggressively questioned on all manner of embarrassingly personal things. Sexual history, sex acts with boy friends, masturbatory habits, her most secret fantasies – and her every response is it greeted with the same cynical and derogatory attitude. She has been interviewed in this way many, many times before. Each time copious notes have been taken, her replies recorded and a bulging fat file is continuously refereed to, cross-checked to validate her candidness and truthfulness. Of course the poor harassed thing is as reluctant to take part as she is resentful of her continued incarceration. And so she quickly finds herself being made to lie across the therapist's desk.

The crotch strap of her straitjacket is tugged up out the way - yanked tight between her fulsome bottom cheeks - and like that she is thrashed with the folded leather belt the orderly has so thoughtfully provided, long and hard. She has been positioned facing a mirror propped up against the wall and has to keep her eyes open, watching herself in reflection being strapped. After each strike and before the next the therapist holds out the belt in front of her for her to kiss – she must bring her lips softly to the leather, smile, glance up at the reflection of the therapist in the mirror, make full eye contact and thank her nicely. She is not restrained but rather is obliged to keep in position of her own volition - to do otherwise, to shift position or jump to her feet, is to invite a repeat of the entire punishment from the start...  And an additional going-over with the cane as well!

Oh My God! A Shock from YouTube

I know I have already posted something today, but I just HAD to share these with you - I couldn't wait! These scenes are taken and adapted from the film, "Und alle haben geschwiegen" From the German this translates as 'All Were Silent'. It is about a home for maladjusted girls.  There is even a movie clip embedded down below (scroll down to the bottom of this post to view).

Actually, albeit indirectly, you have 'Wringer' to thank for the tasty morsel of a hair cutting scene.  He sent me a link to another forced haircut scene entirely and while searching around it I came across this.  I loved 'Wringers' suggested clip also, but this one really captured my imagination.

I mean: Oh my god!  These scenes could have come straight out of my well known (I'd like to think) 'INSTITUTIONALISED' series, from the medical world staff uniforms and inmates' uniform dresses to the use of numbering to address the inmates by rather than their given names.  Yes, I know the plot differs somewhat (I've looked up the film - which incidentally translates as 'All Were Silent').  This is supposed to be based on fact, whereas what I write is total fiction (although inspired by fact).  In addition, the events depicted within the story arc of my series come about as the result of an experimental psychology study gone awry and a hapless young thing in danger of being denied her inheritance after being tricked into volunteering to join by her manipulative legal guardian.  But the parallels, where they exist, are astounding. I couldn't resist adding the annotation, incidentally, although it pertains to the plot line of my book series rather than the film. Another case of truth stranger than fiction or 'you couldn’t make it up', as I'm rather too fond of saying?

“..It's always worked in the past; one plants the seed, one invites distrust, nurtures its growth – it discourages the formation of alliances, keeps our inmates as isolated individuals within the group... Oh look! She's biting her lip...Yes my dear, you'll find any attempt to 'kick over the traces' will be quickly reported by one of your fellows; that's how we knew you'd make a break for it, why none followed your example; I had them all completely subjugated well before YOU were brought here. And there's no point you looking at me like that, dear. You only have yourself to blame! I didn't ask you to volunteer to come here, it's not my fault if you let yourself be talked into it – you should have been stronger willed... But as for when you leave, well that's not down to me either – you initially signed up for three months, so you DO have a choice not to keep extending your stay; just don't sign the renewal... Don't pout – I KNOW the director's cane can be persuasive...”

Above: The aforementioned haircut scene.  

I think they have got the inmate uniform styling about right, incidentally.  Not at all what a teenage girl would want to be seen dead in, and yet functional and practical while still incorporating certain features which although seeming to argue against practicality - namely the long sleeves and buttoned cuffs, which could become soiled while floor-scrubbing for example - are undoubtedly there so as to instil, impose and promote discipline and a feeling of being under control.  Ugly and depersonalising, the dress is totally unlike anything she'd be likely to wear in the outside world, differing greatly from everyday fashion and style and thus marking out the wearer as an inmate of some kind of institution, which is very much the point.  There is also very little she can do potentially to personalise it in any way, which is another important point.  

Removing her outdoor clothing and submitting to wearing the uniform dress represents an important psychological cut-off point - sharply delineating her life and personality outside from her new institutional existence - and in that way she should feel totally stifled by it and ashamed wearing it, which in turn is where the menial appearance of the dress is important, something the institution has clearly got very right.  Of course the institutional haircutting procedure then backs all this up, further impressing upon her that her old life is no more. 

The staff uniforms are important too in helping to present the wearer as a figure of authority, just as much as the inmate uniform encourages a feeling of submission to that authority and it is interesting how rapidly she becomes browbeaten into changing out of her street-clothes and into that uniform, which she does without any form of physical duress whatsoever. It is rather interesting, also, to note how easily she submits to having her hair cut - once again without any form of physical duress or restraint being required – her submission undoubtedly aided by having already tasted defeat, in the form of the institution uniform in which she is now dressed.  

And yet, saying all that; if you freeze frame this clip you will see the dress has got pockets, which is one of the two areas where it falls down from a disciplinary standpoint (the other being the lack of some sort of - preferably embroidered - badge with the institution's name and the girl's inmate number). 

One - she should not posses nor should own anything she need put in those pockets: 

Two - pockets make great hiding places for contraband, even if searched from time to time; though in a well-run institution no form of contraband would be available.  Nevertheless it encourages her to perhaps gather some kind of substitute for the personal belongings she no longer owns.   

Three; it is tempting for the girl to slip her hands her pockets and slouch - although observant staff and a good dose of the cane would soon discourage THAT habit!

Four: if pockets are required for stylistic purposes - for example a breast pocket whose function is merely to act as a platform for the institution badge and the girl's inmate number - then there is nothing wrong with that, so long as they are NOT functioning pockets but merely stylistic devices.

 If I were to make any criticisms as regards the haircutting itself it would that I would like to see the room looking plainer and more clinical, that it should be carried out with the girl being made to face a mirror to maximise the psychological impact and that she should not have to be pulled about so much but rather should be made to sit still, quiet and accepting with her hands resting in her lap and also that she should have been admonished severely when at one point she raises a hand to wipe her face. In fact this would be as good a point as any to introduce her to her first experience of corporal punishment. There would be nothing at all wrong, in my view, about interrupting the proceedings – no matter at what stage - getting her to her feet and making her touch her toes to receive the cane, perhaps, for example, simply wiping her face or, if facing a mirror, closing her eyes or looking away from her reflection; it would make for a salient early lesson in obedience.

Another slight criticism is that it would, again in my view, be totally wrong for her to go straight from her street-clothes into the institutional uniform dress without several intervening steps along the way, these steps – as with her final donning of the inmate uniform – preferably occurring remotely from the site of her initial disrobing and with her gradually moving deeper and deeper into the institution complex or building as she progresses. At the very least these steps should consist of a shower, internal examination and intimate shaving, if not a thorough purging with a strong enema

I'm still working on the new book, and still struggling with how to start it off and make it multi-part without it appearing at first glance as another example of my usual approach – which it very much isn't. Bloody hell! That part of it is turning out to be harder that actually writing the thing – and time is running out; I'm close to having to make greater efforts to seek employment. I know I'll have to eventually – there is not enough cash in writing (my last LULU royalty payment was a stunning £30 for a month, and for some reason I am getting nothing at all from the various affiliate banners I have scattered around) - but I'd like to finish the various projects I have running first... Oh well!

An Unexpected Change in Status

I came across this pic on Tumblr.  I have no idea of its origin beyond that, but a title immediately sprung to mind - 'An unexpected change in status' - and from that point on, the annotation kind of took care of itself.

I have quite deliberately left the details to the imagination, but I have to say this is one of my favourite themes.  Yes, a theme I shall have to explore more fully at some date.  I have always been fascinated by the idea of the heiress put to work in what should have been her own home.  By the way, rather than 'maid' the term I'd prefer would be 'skivvy'.  I love that tittle, skivvy; it's so much more demeaning sounding than 'maid'.  The one exception I can think of to that latter statement is when or if the term 'maidservent' is applied.  "Pay no attention to the girl.  She's just a skivvy."

I like to think they would once have lived quite separate lives in two quite separate locales.  But with the death of a central family figure, both girls have been brought together under one roof for the sake of convenience, partly to make it easier to exert control over them, and partly because from time to time there will be certain documentation requiring both their signatures as gradually their inheritance is creamed off.

Of Torments and Quandaries

The ‘Non Victorian Chick' girl wrote to me recently (don’t’ worry: I have her permission to use her quote) regarding the posting, ‘Blinkered Justice?,  (Thursday 23^rd October).  A most insightful commentary, I think she really has her finger on the pulse when she writes:

“The thing about the picture that strikes me is that the girl is indistinct and fuzzy, the bars are clear and concrete, as are her hands grasping at the bars.

To me it seems a bit symbolic. The girl is becoming indistinct. She's fading a bit, becoming less and less herself. The bars are clear, and concrete. The prison she is trapped in is slowly causing her to fade, and become less and less herself as time goes on. Her hands grasping at the bars are clear as well. So if the girl herself is fading out, her desperation is mounting.  She is trapped, caged, confined, and there is no way out. And as her former identity slowly fades and becomes less distinct, her animal desperation is mounting, as she realises that in time, she will eventually become – unrecognisable.

In a concrete sense, the picture could suggest prolonged sensory deprivation. Her vision could be affected by contacts/frosted goggles/a blindfold worn for long periods of time. Her hearing could be affected by white noise/dripping faucet/ears plugged for long periods of time.  Eventually, she might have laser surgery - after she has lost the ability to read and write.  She could discover - when asked to write out another biography or confession - that she no longer knows how to read and write. She might discover, when told to count the strokes of the cane out loud, that she can no longer remember how to count. 

The Non Victorian Chick”

This got me to thinking (which is one reason I always encourage correspondence).  Years ago in one of my previous incarnations as an electronics engineer I would on occasion be exposed for a longish period to a 800Hz or 1KHz test tone - not especially loud - a very pure sine wave.  Now, the weird thing was, after I turned it off, for a short-ish period afterwards it seemed or felt as if something was missing from the background sounds around me, as if there was a "notch' in my hearing range exactly tuned to the test tone pitch.  This was a very, odd, weird and disconcerting effect.  I was just wondering what effect it would have on the subject of have a constant pure tone pumped into her cell or room in which she has been confined rather than good ol' white noise.  

Going back to the ‘forgetful nurse’, (see the posting of Saturday 18^th October) I always liked the dripping tap thing simply because it can be made to seem as if unintentional and yet, given a dead quiet room – and especially if used in conjunction with the subject confined to a straitjacket - it can make for a delightful torture.  This is especially the case if the subject is forbidden to speak unless spoken to first for fear of receiving a damn good caning otherwise while of course being desperate to remind her carer to turn off the handbasin tap tightly before leaving.

In a similar vein; within the story arc of the present thing I am working on - in one of the later sections - the heroine finds herself confined to a room wherein the lighting continually goes on and off (there may, or may not, be an institutional element - I'm not telling - suffice it to say that it represents a significant departure from my previous output).  But imagine a misbehaving fluorescent tube.  This is something that is easy to replicate in ANY situation - it just requires a faulty starter to have been put aside at some previous date, shutters on the windows or thick heavy drapes or some other way to cut out extraneous light and some form of confinement (and straitjackets are easy enough to come by nowadays, even privately).   

People come, people go – the flickering goes on and on and on, or the tap drips and drips and drips maddeningly...  And no one seems to notice…

But another though has just struck (nothing at all to do with the new book):  What if she has been left totally at liberty to do something about it herself, to get up and turn off the dripping handbasin tap, flick off the light switch (though that would plummet her in to total darkness) - physically at liberty, but restrained from doing so by discipline?  She is not allowed to; and if she does, there will be consequences...  The cane or the torment...  Which will she choose?  

Blinkered Justice?

Ever since I read about opaque contact lenses I have had a sneaking interest in such methods of developing dependency and thus control.  And then I came across this image, albeit with a different (although related) caption, and my imagination became instantly fired up.  Nothing much to do with the plot of the new book, but don't fret; work is still progressing well on that front.  

I may well add more to this posting as the day progresses.  It all depends on where I go, if I take my notebook computer and whether any new ideas pop up in my head.  There are all sorts of stuff bubbling under in my head inspired by this picture, but at present I don't seem able to formulate these ideas in terms of the written word.

It's Not That She's Cruel – She's Just Forgetful. Hey, Anyone Can Have an Off-Day!

Yes, unlike the last posting this one WAS inspired by a certain section of the plot of my new book, as much as it was by the expression on the woman's face. In particular the angle of her eyes is such as to make the addition of a 'think' bubble irresistible.

By the way, one thing I neglected to say last time was that I am also about to start work on what will be - to all intents and purposes - a biography of sorts, but one primarily focussing on my experience of living with dyslexia.

I have often thought of doing something like this over the years - usually when some humorous dyslexia-related anecdote or other has come to mind - and have always imagined it as a kind of after-the-event diary. And thus the provisional title I have come up with:

Dairy of a Dyslexic. From Udder-achiever to...

(Yep! That's right! I really CAN'T tell the difference between a journal and a bottle of 'Gold Top')

There Are More Ways Than One to Keep Her Under Lock and Key

I just love pictures like this!  Images that inspire and stimulate the imagination, often through their sheer simplicity.  Take this photograph for instance, at first sight nothing much going on, just a girl standing in a rather ill-fitting uniform dress.  But look deeper, take another look.  Just one glance at the girl’s eyes and a whole scenario suggests itself, opens up.  I found this on Tumblr and added it to my Tumblr blog last week – a welcome break from struggling with my new book (which this scenario has absolutly nothing at all to do with, incidentally).

“…That’s it… Good girl!  Look deep, deep, deep in to the pattern, mind emptying like a doll, just like a dolly, a plastic plaything waiting to be told what to do next, frightened to be out of its box…  Shall we put you back in your box where you’ll feel all safe and sound and secure?  Yes?  Then let’s get you back to your room, all safely locked away…  Come along, my Little Dolly School Child…  Yes, I think we’ll call you that from now on…”

“Yes, miss…”

‘Little Dolly School Child’ – How she hated the title the woman had just dubbed her, or how she WOULD hate it, once she came to be aware of it, consciously that is!  The school uniform summer dress she had been crammed into – and crammed WAS the operative word, it seemed at least a size too small, perhaps smaller – had been the last straw, at her age.  It looked – and made her feel – ridiculous and she hated herself for kowtowing to her governess’s wishes in letting herself be squeezed into it. 

But there was so much more to it, to her life, now, so MANY other indignities she had ended up submitting to since that woman had come to stay – a lock on her door, not being allowed downstairs, having a new room set aside for her high under the eaves decorated like a child’s room, a bed which looked more like an adult-sized crib, that rule about being ‘seen and not heard’.  This was only the latest manifestation of that woman’s domination – Somehow she just didn’t seem able to stand up to her.  But making her wear a child’s school dress was going a step too far.  They’d underestimated her; she was going to make a break for it, run away; all she needed to do was find some other clothes to change into first… Well such had been the plan at least…  But…

She’d made it to the drawing room – and become frozen in space as if her brain had just iced over. A spinning, shimmering, eye-catching mobile had been mounted in the doorway, just above head height – another hung in front of the window.  Both were identical to the one which hung above her bed and at which she had spent countless hours gazing, slack-jawed and glassy eyed while the ‘relaxation tape’ her governess had introduced droned on and on and on in soft lilting feminine tones about… About what?  She could never quite remember.  Where they had been installed she was bound to catch sight of one or the other of them – and when she did… 

She was utterly captivated, rooted to the spot, had been unable to move for over half an hour, totally under the control of an entire set of deep-seated post-hypnotic commands.  She was very much aware of the bars on her room’s window, she was totally unaware of the bars which had been erected around her mind, ring-fencing her personality in within her own body, didn’t even comprehend such a thing as being possible. 

The shimmering concentric series of hollow two-dimensional spinning stars, each mounted within a larger one and spinning independently from it, would seem hypnotic to anyone one.  But when that individual has been trained month after will-sapping month, the object set up as a hypnotic trigger, obedience to it deeply and patiently ingrained – well, as a security measure it was better than the strongest lock.  She hadn’t even been aware of her governess entering, of her governess layering trigger phrase on trigger phrase, deepening her trance, reinforcing the effect such that in future she wouldn’t even be able to get THIS far unaccompanied…  It was why she’d ‘accidentally’ left the girl’s door unlocked in the first place.