Reprogramming the Mind

from Dr. Michael Catchpole, author of Anxiety: Debug It Don’t Drug It:

The brain is not really a computer. This is merely a convenient analogy.

The key point I want readers of Anxiety: Debug It, Don’t Drug it  to understand is that the brain is a physical entity composed of neurons and neurotransmitters. These are things one can touch and feel. The mind however, in my view, is metaphysical and thus cannot be held in one’s hand. It is nonetheless just as “real” as the brain.

Cognitive neuroscience is the field (along with philosophy) that attempts to bridge the gap between the physical brain and the metaphysical mind. The former, the study of how our brain works, is the discipline of neuropsychology. The latter, the study of how our mind works, is cognitive psychology. To date the gap between these two sub-fields of psychology is narrowing but remains very, very large. We do now know that the physical brain and the metaphysical mind have significant influence upon each other.

In terms of this bi-directional influence, drug companies look solely at the way drugs affect neurotransmitters, which then affect the mind. They have had some partial successes with this approach and certainly have derived remarkable profits from doing so. Importantly, however, and this is my central thesis of my book, simply drugging the brain, be it with medications or for that matter psychedelics, has proven a failure in treating the vast majority of mental disorders drug advertisements and media hoopla to the contrary.  

My own view is that influence in the other direction (that the metaphysical mind can affect the physical brain and more importantly that it can be trained to fix itself ) has been much neglected perhaps in part because resultant treatments cannot be patented or monetized. To return to my point, “reprogramming” a mind (via CBT) is certainly more effective for the anxiety disorders than is drugging brains, though the latter approach is occasionally a good adjunct. Also it is true that changes in the physical brain that result from CBT may help solidify CBT treatment gains.

Others’ thoughts on this topic would be most welcome.

Petition to Support OK Attorney General

I have composed a petition to support Oklahoma’s Attorney General, Mike Hunter as he leads a coalition of 48 attorneys general against Big Pharma.

Can you please support the petition by going to this link: http://chng.it/XNhzDYpGBL

Here is the petition:

The opioid crisis had several causes. The primary cause was the rampant greed expressed by Big Pharma, as detailed in the cases against Johnson & Johnson, and Purdue Pharma. Oklahoma Attorney General Mike Hunter, supported by 48 other attorneys general, has taken on Big Pharma and won.

Even so, the people behind the corporations like the Sacklers are twisting and turning to try to hold onto their billions of blood money. The loud voices of the people must be heard saying, “That is enough!” The deaths of thousands is enough! The suffering of hundreds of thousands is enough!

Suckering the medical community into the role of shills for Big Pharma must stop!

Spreading addiction, destroying families, creating zombies of honest people must stop!

While opioids could have a place for alleviating suffering caused by certain diseases, opioids and benzodiazepines have been unwittingly prescribed for things like anxiety-related disorders. These are of the mind, not the brain. The brain may be treated with invasive measures but the mind should not be. That would be like taking a scalpel to a thought. That is not the way it works. Books such as Anxiety: Debug It Don’t Drug It, by Dr. Michael Catchpole explain the difference.

Send your support to Oklahoma Attorney General Mike Hunter by signing this petition. Help him carry on the fight for reason.

4-Authors – Victoria

It was inspiring. It had drama. The audience truly were provoked to tears, and laughter. And there was some anger.

John Napier-Hemy read from his delightful memoir, Evacuee.

John is a young boy in the middle of WW2, in Victoria and far away from the action:

In addition to having my pockets stuffed with conkers, pellets, elastics, speargrass and blades of grass, I had a small bag of marbles. My best marbles had a red or yellow spiral embedded in the glass, but they were hard to get because of the war. Most of the time we had to put up with marbles that were a murky mixture of green, blue and brown. The worst marbles were called “doughboys”. They were made of baked clay and painted. They cracked almost as easily as our conkers did. The very best were the “steelies”. These were ball bearings that had been purloined from one of the shipyards. They had to be the right size. The small ones were practically useless. The big ones were impressive but impractical, but if you were lucky enough to have one just the right size you had an unbeatable shooter. I felt guilty when I had a steelie in my possession because they were supposed to be important to the War Effort.
To play marbles you drew a circle in the dirt, put your marbles inside the circle, and then began by shooting from outside the circle. The boys who were really good at it knew just how to place a spin on their shooters so that they stayed exactly in place after hitting a marble out of the ring. If you knocked a marble out of the ring you were allowed to keep it. Try as I might I never learned how to place a spin on my shooter. Because I had to kneel to play marbles my knees were dirty and bleeding much of the time. This annoyed my mother who had to remove the gravel from my knees with a washcloth before she applied boracic acid and iodine.
“For goodness sakes. Stay off your knees or you’ll wear them out altogether,” my mother said. “And don’t keep picking at your scabs. You’ll get an infection and anyway it’s disgusting.”
I listened to my mother politely but I never changed my behaviour. How could I possibly play marbles without getting down onto my knees?

Evacuee, pp 63-65

Next, Ben Nuttall-Smith had the audience by the heart with his readings from Margot: Love in the Golden Age. The book is his homage to his partner of the past 16 years, “the best years of my life”. Here is a prescient poem by Margot called Kayaker:


Splashes near my feet.
A half-crescent of sparkling sea.
The webbed claw and feathered corpse of a sea bird
whose spirit is here in the sea-smells.
 
             Dried sea-weed mounds
             And lovely jeweled light shedding small waves
             revealing myriad colours on brightened stones.
             Sun warms my fleecy jacket –
             But the breeze is cool.
 
The lap/splash sounds get louder.
The hollow woof of the curving water finds my attention.
I love this moment.  I treasure its fleetingness. 
I long to hold onto it.
This is all I want!
 
A crab carapace rolls against the bird’s body. 
Seaweed wraps both dead things.
 
Not a bad place for a burial!
I’m being splashed!  I don’t want to move
but the beach-space is being eaten by the incoming tide.
 
Stay here forever.  Die here!  Like the sea-bird and crab.
Roll me in seaweed!
Let the tide take me to the forever and ever. 
My spirit would be so grateful!
 
My bones rolling with currents
My bones becoming sand – being swum over gracefully by fish.
 
Finally my minerals becoming the sea splashing on many shores, floating sea-birds, reflecting sunlight, being wind-blown
into giant, roaring and crashing waves –
thundering in praise of the beauty of the Earth. 

Margot, pp 15-17

Dr. Michael Catchpole’s Anxiety: Debug It Don’t Drug It, was the serious part of the readings. He spoke of the inappropriate use of prescriptions for anxiety-related disorders. While anger was seething below, he professionally explained the causes of anxiety and PTSD, then gave two examples of the cure that is used by registered psychologists. Here is one of the examples of PTSD treatment he read from his book:

A recent (highly modified) example of the latter was, let’s say, a firefighter I had treated, successfully, for PTSD about 10 years ago. He had attended at a very bad fire that tragically included dead children being discovered at the scene. Recently this person came by to see me at my college office (I am retired from clinical practice but continue to teach university courses). He was concerned because his nightmares about the original incident had unexpectedly returned a couple of months ago. He had been to his family doctor who had prescribed Prazosin, an anti-hypertension medication also thought to help with nightmares. However the medication was not working and he wondered if I had any recommendations. My own view is that the nightmares were an effort by his mind (not his brain) to deal with what was a not unexpected re-flare up of his PTSD “mental malware”.
I suggested that he might try backing off the medication under his physician’s guidance and instead re-do some of the exposure steps he and I had done when I saw him originally. Ultimately this would include re-visiting the location of the fire. We agreed that he would drive toward the fire site and when his anxiety got to a 7/10 level pull over and wait there for his anxiety response to drop. He would proceed with this series of steps, perhaps over a few days (each provoking anxiety in the 7/10 range) until he could actually stand at the fire scene and have his anxiety not rise above a 3/10. Subsequently, he reported back to me that the re-exposure was tough but that his nightmares had now resolved. While at the fire location, and not unexpectedly, he reported that he cried, which of course also is helpful.
While people cannot always re-visit the locations where they acquired a trauma I do note with interest recent work with military combat veterans with PTSD indicating that “re-visiting” PTSD-inducing combat via virtual reality goggles also can replicate the therapeutic benefit of in vivo exposure.

Anxiety, pp 176-177

George Opacic spoke about the book he co-authored with Ron M. Craig, In a Cloud of Sails. He mentioned the series of remarkable adventures that the skipper and crew endured on their way across the Pacific to Australia. The one incident that had a few hairs rising on people’s necks was about Myrt, fortune-teller:

The day before the Consul General visited, and without any clue whatsoever of the existence of the Australian, Ron had, in some desperation, made a decision. He had handed Jeff $200 with instructions to purchase charts to Panama and into the Caribbean for at least as far as Jamaica.
Jeff later said that he had no idea what possessed him that day. In a bit of a daze, Jeff had set off to buy the Caribbean charts as instructed. Carrying back his newly purchased charts, he realized in astonishment that what he was carrying was an armload of basic charts for the Pacific, out to Australia! With that realization, he stood on the sidewalk literally gobsmacked. Confusion rattled around his mind.
His only rational explanation was to remember the time last year, between his initially shipping out on the Monte Cristo and later becoming skipper. Jeff was working on a dockside project called the Explorer:


In Bremerton, Washington, I had experienced the inexplicable.
I had heard from the daughter of the Explorer’s owner that there was a fortune-teller in Bremerton who supposedly possessed amazing powers. I am not by nature a mystical or philosophical person and am certainly not superstitious, other than following the established seagoing customs of never, if possible, sailing on Fridays, always putting a gold piece under a mast before it is stepped, and never whistling up a wind. These rituals are kept more as tradition than from fear of consequences if defaulted.
Cheryl, the owner’s daughter, convinced me that I might like having a reading from Myrt, the seer…
Myrt invited me in and asked if I would like a cup of coffee. As soon as she said that, she corrected herself.
“Oh yes, you drink tea, don’t you,” she stated.
She returned presently with the cups on a tray and told me, “You’re a sailor, but not the type we have around here. You’re a real sailor. One who sails sailing ships.”
I replied that I was not sailing on any sailing ship at the moment, but wanted to someday.
“You will, within two months,” she predicted. “You are going on a long trip,” she said.
Here we go, I thought. The next thing she will tell me is that I will meet a dark stranger who will make me wealthy. That should be in the script. I asked her to expand on this. I admitted that a ship I was interested in was planning to sail to the Caribbean to charter there.
“No, it’s not going to the Caribbean. You are going to take her to Australia.”
Australia? Nobody had mentioned Australia to me before.
 “You’ll be greeted by thousands of people including heads of state and royalty,” Myrt predicted. “You’ll have difficult times, naturally, but everything will be all right in the end.”
I thought the prediction about heads of state and royalty a bit over the top, but it made a great way to spend the afternoon. If nothing else, I was getting my money’s worth…
I thanked Myrt and said that maybe I would see her again.
No, she told me. She had intimations of her own mortality…
She died shortly after that. And her predictions about me were eerily correct, for reasons I cannot explain.


Perhaps Myrt had been instructed by Captain Cook.
Indeed, the mysterious appearance of the Pacific charts were to become very useful.

In a Cloud of Sails pp 96-98

To purchase these books, please visit https://rutherfordpress.ca/books-available/

Shorts 2

https://www.campbellriver.travel/attractions/elk-falls-suspension-bridge/?asset=2491-ig-1687526722274019796

Swinging In The Breeze

by George Opacic

Campbell River. A lovely place to retire.

“First, you have to be able to afford to retire,” mumbles Ian, an almost-retired businessman.

Ian is seated on a lichen-encrusted rock beside the trail that leads to Elk Falls Bridge. The chain-link sides of the suspension bridge still glisten with dew in the morning. Rushing water from the river below provides overpowering music for the idyllic area. Ian closes his eyes as he takes in a deep lungful of pine forest air.

Ian is alerted by scuffling noises from up the trail. He sees a thin eighty-year-old in light shorts, white tee-shirt with a small pack bouncing on his back, using jogging sticks to propel himself toward the bridge and past Ian’s rock. Giving a quick glance in Ian’s direction, without slowing down the jogger holds his sticks up while striding down the bridge’s slope. A lone woman tourist who has been standing quietly in the middle of the bridge looks up in annoyance at the bouncing caused by the jogger. Then the watcher is caught in fascination, seeing the athletic gent, older than the watcher by at least ten years, bearing down on her until he squeezes past and works his wiry legs quickly up the far side to disappear down the path.

The watcher stands with both hands gripping the top of the chain-link barrier, staring at where the jogger had so briefly been.

A large plastic cup of fruit and a muffin are half-consumed on the large rock next to Ian. Absently taking his metal fork in hand, he keeps his eyes on the bridge: the jogger’s bounces have become slow sways; the watcher turns her head to stare back down at the rushing water below the bridge; a raven calls nearby; the watcher shakes her head slightly then takes her blue baseball hat and tosses it into the water.

Without registering what he is actually seeing, Ian continues taking in the scene as the watcher stretches a stiff leg up to try to put it over the chain-link barrier. It won’t quite reach.

Ian suddenly finds himself beside the watcher.

“Hello there.”

The bridge is still bouncing from Ian’s headlong rush.

“Go away.”

Puffing a bit, Ian tries to be nonchalant. “Breathtaking view, isn’t it?”

The watcher lets her inflexible leg back down while holding on tightly because of the bouncing bridge.

“What view?” The watcher drops her gaze. “That water is rushing almost as fast as time.” She shakes her head, “No time left…” She leans against the hard chain-link, wanting to drop over.

Ian touches the watcher’s shoulder. “My name is Ian…”

“Bugger off, Ian.” The watcher continues to press against the metal fencing.

Just wanting to keep talking, Ian searches for something to say. “Can’t bugger off, I’m afraid. Part of the human race… As are you. Have to stick around. Part of the contract.”

The watcher half shakes her head but turns annoyance into a polite retort. “Ian. I’m not with that bunch anymore. Not human. Your contract doesn’t apply to me. Thank you anyway, but… bugger off. Please.”

They stare at each other for a quiet minute. Ian sees a generation of yellow-tinged wrinkles that make up the watcher’s face; hollow eyes that used be blue, perhaps, but are now corroded gun-metal grey; salt-and-pepper hair that is uncombed and lies limply against her shoulders; her clothes have been unwashed for months.

“I’m an addict. Used to be just a drunk. There’s nothing left inside. Nothing to save… Leave me alone and go back to your nice life.”

Still at a loss for words, “I can’t pretend to know how you feel…”

“My god, I hope you never know how I feel, Ian. It would kill you, too.” The watcher turns away to stare at the river below. “Used to have a family, a house. No dog. Wanted one. He didn’t… Had a car accident. Can’t even remember it much. They say I hit someone. I remember a slice of a picture of me hitting the other car after that. Woke up in hospital and they starting stuffing needles into my good arm and leg. It was a good blur after that. For a few hours. Then I cried for more… Kicked me out and said I should see a shrink. And a lawyer. She hated me. Said I killed…”

The watcher’s eyes well up and her face writhes into agony.

“The shrink gave me needles and then pills. They made my mind into a tub of molasses, only not sweet. Just thick and grey. But I needed more. More pills. Then more needles. Then everyone left me.” Her now ugly face turns to Ian. “The human race walked away from me!”

She shakes the chain-link fence, cutting her hand on the sharp edges. She absently licks the blood.

“So, bugger off, Ian.”

Would you?

Shorts 1

What Would You Do?

Following an older minivan down a rough paved road in the northern part of Vancouver Island. We pass endless trees growing close to the road, held away by ditches on either side. The drive is marred by clearcuts and fire-kill that rape the low hills, scarring the land for generations.

The minivan driver’s head can be seen nodding aggressively to heavy metal that could be heard if I left my window open. I keep it closed to shut out that and the motorcycle’s racket from behind me. It has been following on my bumper for an hour, refusing to pass, just droning endlessly.

Heading toward a slight bend in the road, the minivan driver’s nodding has become quiet. He wakes up just in time to lose control as he plummets down the near bank, does a lovely pirouette along the far bank, then rolls back down into the centre of the ditch, bouncing, and finally ending upside-down in the wet weeds.

As I slam to a stop on the narrow shoulder ahead of the minivan, the motorcycle screeches hard behind me and overcontrols, sending that driver into a high flip over his bike which lands him half into the ditch ahead of me.

I get out in a panic and decide to rush over to the motorcyclist. He is lying in a spread-out heap with his neck at a gut-wrenchingly weird angle. Not wanting to move his neck in case it is broken, I figure out how to carefully raise his helmet visor. Blood is dribbling from his mouth into his beard and his eyes are shut. His chest is not moving.

Since the motorcyclist is, at best, beyond my ability to help him, I turn away to slip down the ditch to reach the overturned minivan. Through the cracked windscreen I can see the back of a very corpulent man sprawled out on the inside roof behind the front seats, incongruously collecting things and putting them into a large kitbag.

As he sees me try to open the passenger door he violently waves me away. Confused, I back off. The driver continues, more quickly, to grab small pieces of paper from around him and stuff them into his kitbag. As he rolls over to reach across his bulbous chest, I see blood pouring down the side of his forehead. At this time, his head slumps fully against the floor, with his thick tattooed arm plopping off his chest to slide beside his body.

I grab the door handle and, after a couple hard pulls, yank it open. The strong smell of weed is even more prominent than it was outside. The driver remains still but I am encouraged to hear a low groan.

There are crumpled twenty and fifty dollar bills scattered everywhere inside the minivan. A pistol lies near the driver’s feet. Hairs begin to rise on the back of my neck. I think about just backing away from this scene.

Shaking my head, I take one of the bills and use it to wrap around the barrel of the pistol, tossing it out the door behind me. With several clean tissues I had stuffed into my pocket while getting out of my car, I gently wipe the blood from the driver’s eyes. He opens them and I can see that he is focusing on me. I don’t know why I notice that tissue bits have collected in his stubble.

“Take it easy – are you hurt anywhere else?”

He puts his free hand up to his head. It comes away with blood all over his fat fingers. I give him the wad of tissues. He awkwardly wipes away more blood.

“You should apply pressure to the cut… Hold the tissues tightly against…”

He twists away but then slumps back down, out again.

I take the tissues from his hand to apply gentle pressure to the head wound. A few minutes pass. He rolls his head away from my pressure but I leave the tissues on the cut.

“Don’t pull the tissues off yet. It’ll start bleeding again.”

The driver raises his hand up to the tissues then decides to leave them.

Twisting his head with difficulty, he stares directly at me. “Who are you? You a cop?”

Smiling, I shake my head, “No. I was driving behind you when I saw you roll. It looks like the airbags stopped you from going through the windshield. Are you ok, other than the cut on your forehead?”

The driver thinks for a bit, moving his free arm then his legs. “Help me turn over. I, ah, have a lot of cushioning.”

I pull on his shoulder and hip to get him flat on his back.

“Left arm. Feels… Shit. Something wrong with my wrist.”

He lifts up his left arm and tries to flex his hand. “Goddamnit! Can’t move my hand.” Then he remembers his kitbag and the bills. He grabs my arm in a powerful grip with his right hand. “Put back everything you took! Or I’ll…”

He looks around for his pistol.

Calmly, “Take it easy, friend. I didn’t touch your money. Let me help you outside. Oh! There was a motorcyclist who flipped right after you did. Let me help you out then I’ll see if he’s… He didn’t look good.”

“Dead?”

“Well, his neck looked broken…”

“Good. Leave the fucker there. Was tailing me. Help me get to my knees. Have to…” With that, the driver’s eyes go blank and he slumps back down.

Confused, I feel his grip on me release so I back out of the minivan. The pistol is just outside the door. Making a decision, I take a tissue from my back pocket, pick the pistol up with it, then, still wrapped, I stuff the pistol into my back pocket with other tissues.

Waiting a minute to think, I see the driver wake up once more. He touches the tissues on his wound but leaves them. With enormous effort, he rolls onto his right side then uses his good arm to get to his knees. Ignoring me, the driver once again starts collecting the loose bills around him and pushes them into the kitbag with one arm. It gets overflowing-stuffed. Absently watching the scene, I make up a number, mumbling under my breath, “Two hundred thousand?”

The driver stops and grins at me. “Close. You’re a cop, right? No problem. With Shitface dead, I’ll give you some of this if you drive me to the ferry… No questions. No fuss. Just free money. I can disappear and you can do what you want with… shall we say, ten grand? Ten big ones and all you have to do is drop me off at the ferry. You can be my Uber driver.”

He resumes collecting bills then reaches for another bag. The driver doesn’t raise his head as he adds, “Make up your mind before someone else comes along.”

It is tempting. I pat the pistol in my pocket then shift it, feeling through the cloth, so that the handle is up.

Slyly, “You got the gun. What’s to worry about. Here, take this full bag and zip it for me while I finish off in here.

As he rises to swing the kitbag out awkwardly with his good hand, he hits the ceiling/floor of the minivan. “OW! DAMNIT!”

The tissues fall off his forehead and the cut opens up again. It doesn’t pour out as quickly as before but it still needs to be staunched. With my last few tissues from around the pistol, I reach in to help the driver. He tries to grab my arm again. I back off.

Throwing the tissues at him into the minivan, I back off. “Clean yourself off, this time. If you can’t trust me I guess I’ll have to go report the accident.”

“Wait!” The driver leans onto his left elbow and holds his right hand toward me. More quietly, “Wait a minute. Not in any shape to argue.” He smiles, “And here you are trying to help a fat old accountant while I… Listen. You got all the cards. All I got is some money. You say you’ll help me for twenty thou and that’s the deal.” He bends his thick neck enough to look me in the eye. “What do you say?”

What would YOU do?

(adapted from a narration of an incident by John Wilson)

Punishing Your Body

The jaw-dropping cache of documents made public by the Washington Post – https://www.washingtonpost.com/investigations/six-takeaways-from-the-deas-pain-pill-database/2019/07/16/ [paywall]- and reported further in Ars Technicahttps://arstechnica.com/science/2019/07/76-billion-opioid-pills-in-7-years-how-pharma-companies-drowned-us-in-drugs/ – can hardly be believed.

The article starts with this paragraph: “Between 2006 and 2012, opioid drug makers and distributors flooded the country with 76 billion pills of oxycodone and hydrocodone—highly addictive opioid pain medications that sparked the epidemic of abuse and overdoses that killed nearly 100,000 people in that time period.”

Should these prescriptions even be given?

Any medication that punishes the body when one tries to stop taking it needs to be prescribed with extreme caution.  The current and tragic opiate crisis is a direct result of such caution not being exercised.  As I explain in my book Anxiety: Debug It, Don’t Drug It, published by Rutherford Press, the next shoe to drop will be the massive over-prescription of benzodiazepines (“tranquilizers”) for anxiety.  Many people say these drugs are even harder to give up than opiates. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) has a proven track record as being far more effective for treating anxiety than do these medications, especially over the long run.   Both the rationale for CBT’s application as well as a step-by-step process for enacting it also are outlined in my book.  :Dr. Michael Catchpole.

Where Are We Going?

Photo by Roi Dimor on Unsplash

This election cycle may be our last chance. Work HARD for the Progressives, do the best you can to see them elected, and vote as if all our lives depend on it, because they do.

Comment by “Art” in https://theintercept.com/2019/07/05/shell-conference-climate-change/

This brief comment to the article in The Intercept was one of several by “Art”. His other comments were a depressing, long list of scientific findings that he, as a climate scientist, offered to support his reasons for being so blunt.

To those who said it is too late, or that we, the people, have no power to make a change, Art replied, ” Your nihilism is duly noted but I refuse to give up.”

To which “mgr” wrote:

Art: Spot on! That’s really what it comes down to. We may win, or we may lose, but giving up is always defeat, from the inside out. It comes down to making a choice.

Where are we going?

For the sake of our children and their children, we have this choice: follow the platitudes of our current leaders as they follow the money dangled before their noses; or put your hand up and vote for a future that will include humanity. A future that will include breathable air, enough clean water to drink, sufficient vegetation and animals to maintain the only place, the ONLY place, in this universe where we can live.

The money being dangled before our noses cannot be breathed or eaten.

It is way past time to be nice. Our very lives are at stake.

There are no passengers on spaceship earth. We are all crew. Marshall McLuhan