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This book was based upon true events. Some names, dates, court cases, and docket numbers have been modified to protect innocent family members from the actions of the guilty, and also the innocent, who unknowingly contributed...
I was just a building. I belonged to no religious organization. This book is dedicated to Scientologists, and concerned citizens of the world who understand the dangers of modern psychiatry, pharmaceutical industries, and governmental collaboration.
Chapter One
The Manors
“When I went to medical school, sixty years ago, there were only a handful of mental diseases. I think there were no more than six or seven. Now there are more than three hundred. And new ones are, quote, 'discovered' every day. Labeling a child as mentally ill is stigmatization, not diagnosis. Giving a psychiatric drug is poisoning, not treatment. I have long maintained that the child psychiatrist is one of the most dangerous enemies, not only of children, but of adults, of all of us who care to the most precious and vulnerable things in life. And those two things are children and liberty. Now I ask again, how can parents protect themselves from the therapeutic state? That is from the alliance of government and psychiatry?”
Dr. Thomas S. Szasz Dinner Speech
I saw you always within my walls. I felt you as you touched me anywhere. I could read your emotions and your thoughts. I never slept. I was made of bricks and mortar. I was the floors, the ceilings, the walls, and doors. I was five stories tall. I was the Manors. I was originally a public, and later a private psychiatric hospital, located in Tarpon Springs, Florida, on the Gulf of Mexico. In the 1920’s, I was built to be a golf resort, and I was gorgeous. Al Capone, in his drunken, syphilis filled body, once shot me.
I became a public psychiatric hospital in 1953. I was always under scrutiny for racketeering and patient abuse. Even have a federal grand jury of seven years from the 1990's, lasting into the twenty-first century, my deepest and darkest secrets were never uncovered or revealed, until now. All of the hundreds of millions of dollars I obtained for my owners and their friends through Medicare and private insurance fraud, were never fully understood, nor was the extent of the abuse and manipulation of patients, until now.
My dear gentle readers, lock your doors, close your curtains, and do not let them see you reading my book, or they will put you within similar walls like mine, to keep the truth from coming out. Walls like mine can only be found in psychiatric hospitals, and prisons. They are the walls you never want to live within. Is there a New World Order? Did President John F. Kennedy live on a Greek island in 1964 after his assassination in 1963? Did the fifty people who personally witnessed John F. Kennedy’s assassination, and saw men with rifles on the grassy knoll, not die from mysterious and violent deaths within one year of their testimony? Did not Bobby Kennedy ask the CIA Director in 1963, “Did you kill my brother?” Was there not a Holocaust? Did the American government not know of the events of 9/11/’01 prior to 9/11/’01? The Holocaust is history. 9/11/’01 occurred. John F. Kennedy is no longer with us. Some things I know, and I know what occurred within my walls. If the truth frightens you; if you do not believe that evil exists; if you do not want to read about man’s inhumanity to man; do not read this book. The truth is evil exists. The truth is good men and women of conscience can overcome evil.
My dear gentle readers, you have no idea of what occurred within my walls. If you think of organized crime as the Mafia and the Sopranos, then you still live in the “I Love Lucy” generation of mentality. The sole purpose of organized crime is making money, or more accurately stated it is in acquiring money. I had observed organized crime operate within my walls for decades, with the blessing of the pharmaceutical industry, and through political donations to politicians in office. Vito Genovese would have been proud.
“Do No Harm” is the Hippocratic Oath. The Hippocratic Oath, as exemplified by the one used at the University of North Carolina School of Medicine:
“I do solemnly swear by all I hold most sacred: That I will be loyal to my profession of medicine and just to its members
That I will lead my life and practice my art with virtue and honor
That into whomsoever home I shall enter be for the good of the sick and the well by the utmost of my power and that I will uphold myself aloof from wrong and corruption and from the tempting of others to vice
That I will exercise my art solely for the benefit of my patients, the relief of suffering, the prevention of disease and promotion of health, and I will give no drug and perform no act for an immoral purpose
That in the treatment of the sick, I will consider their well-being to be of a greater importance than their ability to compensate my services
That what I see or hear in the course of treatment or even outside the treatment in regard to the lives of persons which is not fitting to be spoken, I will keep enviably secret
That I will commit myself to a lifetime of continued learning of the art and science of medicine these things I do promise and in proportion as I am faithful to this oath, may happiness and good repute be ever mine, but should I trespass and violate this oath, may the reverse be my lot”
I saw that oath broken daily by those who were entrusted to uphold it within my walls. Within my walls, psychiatric doctors were organized crime, working in concert with many others, from medical doctors, to marketers, to the pharmaceutical industry, and the government. They flourished off of taxpayer’s money, behind the walls of “patient confidentiality,” with respectability, that even law enforcement and courts were intimidated by, so they remained unfazed through years of investigations, until now.
I felt his compassion as he pushed open my large front door, in 1994. He was a recent graduate from the University of South Florida, in St. Petersburg, Florida, with a degree in Political Science. Most lawyers in America obtain the degree, prior to their doctorate in Law. He had been sent to destroy me, and he did, and I thank him for finally giving me relief from all of the suffering and abuses I had witnessed for too long.
He stepped onto my floor alone, so I knew he was not being committed to me. I felt his strength and his reserves of energy, but I could not read his mind totally, nor could I ever fully, and I still do not know why, because I was able to read all the others. He was an enigma to me, and I never fully determined his purpose. He was Caucasian, muscular, and I felt 190 pounds standing on me, measuring 5’11”. He was 44 years young, and looked much younger. Whose ever genes he had inherited, he wore it well. He had a protruding Adam’s apple, was clean-shaved, and wore wired rimmed glasses as a prop. He had blue eyes, a Roman type nose, and only his short-cropped hair gave away that he was more than his projection. Why he was single, I never understood. He walked to the receptionist desk, and said he had an appointment with the Director of Nursing. “Max Hardt,” was the name he gave the receptionist. He had chosen a deep undercover name along with his historical background and parentage history he had memorized so easily. I never knew who he really was, nor did I ever learn his real name.
Mrs. Simpson, the thin petite, obsessive-compulsive woman whose ritualistic behavior of continually needing to have everything in its place was the Director of Nursing. She introduced herself formerly, and led the way to her office. She was never the one for petty chitchat or socialization. She was the perfect Director of Nursing. From the moment he entered me, I observed that he was recording everything. He studied my lilies in the vases on the walls, every eight feet apart, which were replaced every Thursday throughout me. It was excellent marketing, and he knew it. Families visiting on weekends for “Family Therapy” always admired them too, and bought into the concept of what a professional and caring facility I was. They did not know what went on within me, Monday through Friday, 24 hours a day, year round.
I did not know when he first stepped onto my floors that the press had previously labeled him former “Army Intelligence” or “CIA”. They did not know that he was more than that. He looked for video or audio equipment. He observed that there was none. With what went on within my walls, no one wanted it recorded. His alleged resume was impressive. He had applied for the job that had been advertised in the St. Petersburg Times, “Psychiatric Technician.”
His deep-cover father had been a Dr. of Psychology, an author, and a Peace Researcher. Max had credentials that said he had even won a U.S. Supreme Court case, setting the precedent for Student Rights in America. In the age of identity theft, Max could become anyone, and surgeons could alter his looks accordingly. He had certificates, and awards, attributing to a liberal bleeding heart. Perfect to add more credibility to me, I read Mrs. Simpson thinking. His resume even showed experience as a Psychiatric Technician Supervisor. The phone numbers he provided for each job would verify his assertions, and call him an “asset,” and a “treasure,” even those numbers outside this country.
Mrs. Simpson said, “We have a position as a Case Manager that might be more in line with your experience, and a higher salary. Would that interest you?” Max, knowing that would get him insider information on me quicker, accepted the offer graciously and humbly. He knew he was now in me, and I did not know then what a friend I had in him. Mrs.
Simpson took Max to meet Mrs. Thorp. She was a plump, jovial extrovert, and the Director of Social Services. They hit it off, and Max was now to be the Case Manager of the “New Directions” wing of me. It was my wing that held my most psychotic and violent patients. Another of my wings was “Rainbow” for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender patients. Gay and lesbian employees staffed it. Max never worked in my “Rainbow” wing. I never sensed any racism, sexism, ageism, or homophobia within Max. I was advertised in national gay magazines,moreover, they would voluntarily fly in from around the country to spend time within my walls. Most thought they were coming to a resort. It did not take long for them to realize that I was no resort.Once they were within my steel locked doors, there was no way out, except through death, or insurance expiration.
Even insurance expiration would not work for the Kennedy or Rockefeller types, whose families would pay the $1,000.00 a day fee to keep them within my walls. Many of them had been drugged daily for years within me. $365,000.00 a year was paid to me for family peace of mind. The mind of the patient within me did not matter, and often became mindless after years of medically supervised and prescribed mind-altering medication. Those who had committed themselves and tried to leave would then be determined to be a threat to themselves, or to others.
They were then Baker Acted. It was a law the Florida legislature passed in the 1970’s, allowing for involuntary psychiatric hospitalization. “Insight” was my wing for the hearing impaired; “New Life” was my wing for those under the age of eighteen, some as young as ten; “Sunrise” was my wing for those over sixty-five years of age, which was my largest wing. “Giving Life” was my wing for women, which of course, always had a female Case Manager. “New Hope” was my wing for those with alcohol or drug issues.
In all, there were one hundred and thirty beds within my walls. Each room consisted of one or two beds, and one or two dressers, one or two desks with a chair or chairs, depending on if it was for one or two people, with an attached bathroom. They were very similar in structure to college dorm rooms, except for what went on within them. One was a stimulating environment of growth and learning, the other was of despair.
I was always full thanks to governmental funding, even though I was a private, for-profit facility. Just give the average American taxpayer their MTV, HBO, and MySpace, and they will pay their taxes, trusting that Uncle Sam knows best. When I was not full, the marketers were sent to some nursing home, or elderly group home, called adult living facilities. They were often located hundreds of miles away from me. There they
would pick up some unsuspecting, confused elderly person to fill up my empty beds. It did not matter if they were not a threat to themselves or others, because once they were within my walls, the documents would be created that said they were a threat to themselves or others. Of course, the best candidates were those with no surviving relatives. The “No Questions” patients had no one to question what was going on. My dear gentle readers, what was going on was systemic violence, perpetuated upon the least among us by psychiatric doctors in the name of patient care. Think of it this way, if I was paid $1,000.00 a day to cure you, and $0.00 a day if you were cured, what is in my best economic interest? Therefore, it was with the elderly. Medicare will pay one hundred and ninety days of lifetime benefits for you to be in psychiatric hospitals.
Max was always amazed at the doctors who managed to cure their patients on the one hundred and ninetieth day of treatment. For those the doctors really managed to make sick with their over medication, Max was instructed to have them transferred to a public facility on their one hundred and ninety-first day of treatment.
When either private or public insurance asked questions, the administration knew they only had to have the doctors change the medication. The doctors when given the word to change medication, would comply. All public and private insurance companies allow for another seven days of treatment from medication changes to allow for stabilization. Dr. knows best. How many poor psychiatric doctors do you know? Most private insurance companies allow from one to three months of paid psychiatric hospitalization annually. Therefore, you already know on what day they were cured.
Max knew it first hand. As he became a more trusted employee to the administration, he became their inside hit man. He was the one who would go to the doctors with the directives from administration. His resume said he was a Conscientious Objector, but he had been a trained killer by more than one government.
But he was so much more than that, because while I never could truly read his mind, I could read his heart, and it was breaking more and more each day within me as he saw what I had seen for years. Unknown to the doctors and administrators, he was documenting it all in his photographic memory, and writing it all down, in order to bring me down.
He was looking for the one doctor, who would refuse his directive; he was looking for a reverence of life within my walls. He never found it. The closest it came was when one day he held a patient’s chart out to Dr. Nelson, a doctor Max liked, and said, “Mrs. Simpson said to tell you that this patient needs his medication changed.“ Dr. Nelson looked at Max and said, “I hate this.” He then took the chart from Maxs' hand, opened it to the medication section, and wrote in a new medication for the patient. Max turned his back on the doctor and walked away. I saw a tear swell in Max’s right eye, as he swallowed hard.
Mrs. Thorp told Max to report to her on the following Monday, and she would take him to my “New Directions” wing. On escorting him out, Max was recording it all in his memory. “Mr. Steinberg, I’d like you to meet our new Case Manager of New Directions,” Mrs. Thorp said to the portly, well-dressed man in a three piece blue tailored suit, coming toward them. “Max Hardt, I’d like you to meet Anthony Steinberg, the CEO of the Manors,” Mrs. Thorp said. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Steinberg,” Max replied, as he reached out his right hand to shake hands with Mr. Steinberg. Mr. Steinberg was in his fifties, and Caucasian, as were all of the staff and patients at the Manors, except for a handful.
I never sensed racism within my walls. I just figured that African Americans had a little more common sense than most regarding a psychiatric label being placed on them, and accepting hospitalization and medication as the cure.
Max would later get to see the picture of Mr. Steinberg and President Carter proudly displayed on Mr. Steinberg’s large office wall, as Max maneuvered his way through the maze of my corrupted halls. Max eventually shared information with the FBI in their office in Largo, Florida. He was never called before the federal grand jury. I was just a psychiatric hospital. I did not know how these things worked. Governments that operate in secrecy are a threat to everyone’s liberty, everywhere.
Max moved his way up to be Judge Thomas Newton’s quasi bailiff in Baker Act hearings, held on my premises every Tuesday. By the end of the hearing, it was rare for the Judge not to grant my owners request to have patients kept within my walls. Judge Newton was a fair, good and decent man. He was a veteran of World War II, and knew of Max’s alleged Supreme Court victory. They would often talk before the hearings.
Mr. Steinberg was pleased that Judge Newton and Max hit it off. Max walked out one day with a briefcase full of evidence, never looked back, or stepped onto my floors again. Later they closed me, and tore me down. I never had the opportunity to thank Max, and I still do not know who he really was, or what organization or organizations he worked for, or where he is today. I hope he moved on to shut down another corrupt psychiatric hospital, or helped people to understand the dangers, and the manufacture of madness by the psychiatric and the pharmaceutical industries, with the collaboration of the American government. I was just a building, and this was my story. Max, if you are still alive, and read this, I want to thank you for giving me my freedom.
"If you talk to God, you are praying; if God talks to you, you have schizophrenia.” Thomas Szasz, The Second Sin
