Story by Jim Smith. Art by Raoul Pascual

Prologue

It is my intention to help readers to understand the plight of the poor, the homeless and the ‘mentally ill.’ With special attention; never showing your power over another with bullying. The people in the article are real, but their names are fictitious.

Color this cathartic: It is my story which will never change.

CHAPTER ONE

The back story begins seven months ago when I woke up to the sound of my wife’s scream. Her name is Laura. From that morning on, I knew I would never be the same again and take Laura, my wife for 42 years, for granted. I must become a REAL husband who loves his spouse more than himself. And I will now do everything in my power to help her, easing her from the physical and emotional pain.

Laura was experiencing intense pain in her spinal cord. The groans and muffled screams continued for five long months. She would wander around the house, bumping into the walls, sometimes saying that she thought she was dying.

We went to the hospital many times and had many different examinations. It was determined that she had a pinched nerve in the base of her spine, but no specialists could determine why the relentless pain would not subside without triggered shots of steroids. Once the triggered shots had run their course, the excruciating pain would continue. But later, a bone density examination revealed seven cracked ribs and a broken one. Since then, Laura decided not to have further trigger shots, and through diligent stretching, exercise, and prayer; the pain has almost dissipated.

Laura is very private and not an exhibitionist; in particular, she did not want her siblings to know about her spinal pain. Some of her siblings live in small farming areas in Central Washington State, and some are religious cultists. As Laura and I have completely different values; we attempt to approach a person with equality, regardless of race, career, and religion, we are despised. Often a U.S. Hispanic person would be simply dismissed as a Mexican of the migrant variety by some of Laura’s relatives.

These relatives – two siblings and the cyber bullying brother-in-law – view Laura as an anti-Christian, a wayward liberal urban elitist who moved to the big godless city of Los Angeles. Even worse, she is married to me, Jim Smith; a native Seattleite, who was trying to ‘make it’ in Hollywood. When we visit them in Central Washington they pray loudly. Laura privately prays, aware that praying out loud is more of a performance, seeking praise as an actor, rather than expressing true words of thanks to God.

The debacle

As Laura did not want anyone besides me and her doctors/specialists to know about this ordeal. I broke my oath to her. I needed support and prayers from close friends and family who really do love her and even those who don’t. It was a heavy load for me to carry on my own.

Against my best intentions, I also informed each of her four Christian siblings and three in-laws of her unrelenting pain, begging them to privately pray for Laura. This was difficult, requesting that they pray without her knowing it.

Laura’s immediate relatives live under a code of silence, where nothing negative is ever said. Occasionally we do overhear whispers about us, but generally just eyerolls and silence when we express an opinion. It is well understood that we are not considered true Christians or even humanitarians.

The siblings have a family app called PRAISE THE LORD. It is a thread for anyone in need of ‘Christian’ support. The PTL chain can range from the serious – Covid and cancer to a bad cold and even praying for a kitchen appliance to be healed. Yes, faith healing a dish washer out of repair.
Laura’s oldest sister is named, Delila. Her husband of 40 years is Joshua, an unrepentant bully and a narcissist. He took exception to my requests for everyone to pray for Laura’s spinal pain to heal. I was stealing his thunder by informing ever. He believed that he was head of this new adoptive family, and all attention should go to him. Everyone who meets him is aware of his narcissism and self-worship. His long tirades at the family tale are overbearing, how he changed someone’s life, how many pushups he did at the gym, glorified by self-videos and memes sent to us via FB or on the family PTL app.

A Nation of Elvis impersonators

Joshua’s two favorites: dressing in a costume of a fierce Chinese warlord, and a video of him waving a U.S. flag, while charging up a hill, inspiring citizens to follow him in battle. It was an unintentional emulation of the Aryian Übermensch, an example of the master race, climbing an Alpine Mountain with Nazi with swastika imagery. It proved to be effective with the Nazis, but for this man of ignorance who had never been in a battle, the absurdity provoked annoyance and irritation for many who have been in battle.

My father dropped out of high school at 17, joined the Marines, and participated in D-Day the Battle of Iwo Jima and D-Day Battle of Okinawa, often said flag-wavers are jingoists, not patriots. If you’d been in a battle, it is the last thing you would ever want to talk about, Just as worse, my father was a devout Roman-Catholic, not considered a real Christian by some of Laura’s religious cultists siblings and in-laws.

We all felt pity for the bully, Joshua

But everyone is afraid to say anything negative about Joshua because it might hurt the feelings of the oldest sister, Delila. She is regarded to be weak, sweet, and kind, but it’s easy to notice her short comments and side-glances to Joshua in condescension of Laura and me. A farewell back to Southern California generally closed with; “Will pray for you, Jim.” But, strangely never to Laura; only to me, a non-blood relative.

For Joshua, silence meant free reign for more boasting. Sure, this has been happening for 42 years, since the marriage to the oldest sister, Delila. This has been the main problem; silence so it doesn’t cause hurt feeling to the sister, Delila, even though she brought him into ‘the family’ – a family who offered unconditional love. The only love he had experienced prior to that was self-love and self-admiration. Delilia offered that to him more than any other person, but he would humiliate her too in front of her family with bad hygiene, table etiquette, interrupting her when she spoke.

So, as my prayer requests came in for Laura, the bullying brother-in-law, Joshua, posted a photo of himself, bare-chested, staring with vengeance and with threats of rage on Laura’s FB page.

I believe what set him off, his banishment from my wife’s family’s Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years Day family tables in Central Washington. This is where he generally holds court as the de facto head of Laura’s Washington family. After living three and a half years without paying rent and utilities living with Laura’s demented and then departed mother, he and Delilia moved to a rental home in Idaho. As much as the family supported and tried to protect Delilia’s sensitive feelings, maybe the message of his ill repute was beginning to unravel.

Without Mercy

The Sunday attack happened in the evening on a Sunday night when Laura was suffering with unrelentless spinal pain. I had just helped her into bed, set her up with an ice pack, and suggested she should relax and look at her FB account. As she clicked her account on her phone, her body jolted, and her spine hit the wall behind the bed when she saw an unimaginable photograph. She quietly deleted the photo, hoping I wouldn’t notice it. She knew it would upset me more than her.

I managed a quick look and realized it was Joshua’s way to get me to stop with updates about Laura progress to her family. It was the photo of Joshua, bare-chested, staring with vengeance and with threats of rage on Laura’s FB page.

I have only seen reincarnations of the Devil in magazines, cartoons, TV and in movies. But to see someone you know such as Joshua, taking on that personification was horrific. I mean, he wanted to be the Devil. The bullying meme was pathetic, but also powerful for this person would think it would silence me from updates and pleads for everyone to pray for Laura.

I did my best not to appear upset. So, after Laura finally slept, I quietly went into our living room at 11 PM, sending messages to her siblings, demanding to know how they could allow such a terrible thing to happen. How could they admire and respect such a dubious man. His history is dreadful, almost unimaginable. But the unimaginable code of silence remained.

I called what I thought was more of a sane brother, the executor of her family’s will. He’s a busy guy, who works midnight hours. I stayed awake for 46 hours waiting for an answer that never came. I then phoned Laura’s’ youngest sister and husband, who answered my call. Once they made sense of my erratic outrage, they said they would consider flying down to Studio City to protect Laura.
I said it was not necessary; all that was, was stop the cyberbullying of Joshua, but that was not even mentioned.

During the long wait, I wrote a 40-hour narrative on my mobile phone about the recent event, exclaiming all what had happened to Laura, asking for some kind of mercy, sanity. I asked everyone to write a letter to her on how much they loved, respected and accepted her as a Christian.

But all I got back was a virus on my phone from the narcissistic bullying brother-in-law, Joshua, who had managed to cripple my phone, blocking all contact with Laura’s family; so, I could not send the testimonial and contact anyone in the PTL chain.

In the morning, I contacted Laura’s youngest brother. He said he was not about tearing anyone down and spoke with admiration of Joshua. I begged him not to tear anyone down but to help build a wall to protect Laura. The call abruptly ended.

This was crushing. As it turned out, Laura’s siblings and in-law had more sympathy for Joshua, the cyberbully, than for her. I was stunned by this. They were all raised the same way with the same values of their Christian parents. How could they side with a manipulating brother-in-law, Joshua, with his crude prose and pantomime over the honor of their true sister.

Was I going insane?

CHAPTER TWO

The Day of Wrath

The next evening, Laura noticed I was distracted and appeared to be in another world of emotional pain. I explained it was obvious and then called each of her siblings with Laura watching, asking them if it was normal for a husband to be upset by such a malicious act of cyber violence by a brother-in-law.

Each one skirted the question. and insisted I should immediately be taken to the Emergency Room. I was stunned. They chose protecting the honor of the narcissistic brother-in-law, Joshua, over the honor of Laura, their own sister. Laura agreed; I must go to the ER.

Laura was concerned that I was having a nervous breakdown and said it was most important for me to have an analysis by psychiatrists and psychologists to determine if I was dangerously facing insanity. At the same time, I was also concerned that she was having an emotional breakdown, too. I wanted her to have a session with them as well.

Laura had spoken to my clinical psychiatrist the afternoon before, and the doctor agreed with me: How could any husband not be upset when an out-of-control brother-in-law like Joshua posted threatening images of himself, as the Devil, on his wife’s Facebook page?

So, to prove a point, I went willingly and sat in solitary confinement and spoke to two psychologists and two psychiatrists at Kaiser Hospital. All four of the doctors said my rage was a normal reaction when someone posts something so repellent on a loved ones’ FB page. The interviews were recorded for posterity with a security guard looking on.

This was good for my attorney; my testimony was now legally reported. When I made my one phone call to him, he immediately said he would pay out of pocket for a high-tech security system, a 24/7 guard, and contact associate lawyers in Idaho and Washington State. It was then, he realized what a narcissist Joshua really is. And, like most narcissists, he is a wounded bully and would be too much of a coward to act on it in person. “Leave it alone,” he said. “Forget about this guy. Never contact him again.”

It was essential, though, for Laura to have her own session with the professionals. The problem, though, was that Laura left the hospital while her mobile phone was off. The pain in her spine was too much and she needed to rest, so she was unable to corroborate my testimony. It would be unfair for her to have a conference.

What it was like: 12 hours in solitary confinement

I was alone in a room with a wash basin and bed. The fourth wall was glass, with a security guard watching over me. So, I had plenty of time to lay on my back and stare at the ceiling. The matter at hand: why exactly did I end up here, when I was told that I’d simply be given a few blood samples, then an interview with a psychiatrist? The answer was obvious, I might be a threat to someone or to myself. Though this thought was absurd, apparently all bases must be covered to avoid a lawsuit if it was determined that I really was on the road to insanity.

Later, it was easy to meditate and pray. I was able to memorize a few new articles to eventually write, figure out the reason for past concerns and problems; the rest of my time I exercised with the security guard watching.

When dusk fell, the doctor approached me and said that I must spend the night, but there were no open beds at the hospital.

Two ambulance drivers arrived, positioned me onto a stretcher and away we went to a different hospital in downtown Los Angeles. I asked the name, but they remained silent, only that it was located on College Street. I remembered my wife, then a new family nurse practitioner in the mid-1990s, did volunteer work at a Mental Hospital at that address, training nurses how to appropriately evaluate the physical symptoms of new patients and (most importantly) to treat them with kindness and respect.

When I would drive her to and from the hospital, I knew the name Mental Hospital was a place that I would never want to be incarcerated. I had seen too many movies.

CHAPTER THREE

When I was wheeled into Unit Two, I was stunned to see a patient wandering down the hallway, whimpering, “‘We are all DEAD!” It reminded me of the hopeless, shrieking women in Siberia, which Dostoevsky wrote about in The Brothers Karamazov.

One of the ambulance drivers said, relax; be happy I was not in Unit One; yesterday a patient had stabbed his eye with the blunt end of a crayon.

After I checked into the main office, I was led into a room where there were two beds, basically foam pads, resting on firm plastic foundations, with just one short blanket and a pillowcase with a flat pillow. Every 15 minutes, a nurse flashed a commuter light on us, as we were all on a modern-day equivalent of a suicide watch.

I was lucky with my cellmate, Jerry. He seemed more like a polite boy of 20, as opposed to an adult male. His face was marked with burns. Why? You never ask, only listen. His speaking style was often erratic, but you could always feel the depth of forgiveness and kindness in his verse. He never left his covers, only constantly apologizing that he was keeping me awake.

It would take much effort by nurses and assistants to get him to leave the covers of his bed, just so that he may eat in the main dining room. As a veteran of the dining room, I understood his reluctance.

I got to know him better two nights earlier. It was a usual night while I struggled to sleep, but the 15-minute suicide lights would not allow me to. One of the patients had secretly given me a hard copy of the Old Testament. But why secretly? It was not the content; the Old Testament cover had sharp edges, which could be used as a tool for violence.

I was raised as a New Testament Christian and wanted to learn more about our Hebrew God’s Commandments to Moses, 6,000 years ago. But there was no way I was going to disturb my roommate with harsh overhead lights. So, I did my best to sleep.

My first night, I woke up on the floor, surrounded by nurses with cell phone flashlights. I had had a back operation a year before, which damaged it more. At this point, though it hardly mattered, I was given a ‘walker’ to use.

The next evening, I entered the adjoining bedroom. The room was dark and the floor was wet. My roommate wept under the covers and apologized profusely: he had clogged up the toilet with vomiting, feces, and toilet tissue. Like me, he was given strong prescription medication to be calm and avoid outbursts. They were difficult to digest.

I complained to Norman, the head nurse, that the toilet must be fixed. I was informed that plumbing was not part of his job description. On the next shift, two hours later, a powerful looking man of Sudanese origin, unclogged the toilet.

Later, I left my room and asked Norman if I could sit outside in the community room to read where there was light. I was harshly ordered to return to my cell. But I pleaded that turning on the light would upset my roommate. Yet, his answer was firm: “READ IN THE BATHROOM!”

Norman said, I should sit in the starkly lit bathroom, with a lone sink and a toilet without a seat. There was a half-padded foam door, and another half foam door at a shower staff; all eyes must be kept on us.
[A cartoon of a person reading a book AI-generated content may be incorrect.]

He and the other nurse laughed as I reluctantly entered the bathroom, I removed the flimsy padded shower door, sat down on it and read the Old Testament under the harsh bathroom light. I’ve never been particularly religious and will never be regarded as a philosopher, but the light did illuminate the verses.

But, a few hours later, a kind Nigerian American nurse entered my bathroom and was appalled to see me sitting on the floor, reading. I explained to him; I was only following the protocol of the previous Anglo American male nurses.

He replied, he is now in charge of this shift, gently helped me to my feet, and led me to the main community room where there was light, crafts, games, TV, etc. I said I only wanted to read. And a few minutes later he brought me a sandwich, chips and punch. May God Bless Him.

Thanksgiving

I met with the head psychiatrist on the eve of Thanksgiving. Once again, I explained to him that Laura’s brother-in-law, Joshua, was cyberbullying her, by posting threatening photographs of himself half-naked on her FB page.

The head psychiatrist then contacted Laura, who explained it was true. He read my file which noted I was good for patient’s morale, never missing any of the communal events: meals, stretching, craft classes, etc. How to deal with stress in the most edifying way? Relax, assess the situation and remember that patience is a virtue (I think Ben Franklin said that).

The head psychiatrist determined that I could depart, to enjoy Thanksgiving with family and friends. But I decided to stay for a few more days to see if I could help the other patients. After the cyberbullying of Laura’s brother-in-law, Joshua, could handle almost anything. He was pleased to hear that I had encouraged eight patients to write about their experiences on the Traveling Boy website.

Laura never missed a daily visitation – covertly bringing in fresh clothes, food and flowers hidden in books. It’s better to give than receive – and I continued with that mandate, giving three stems of carnations to an underappreciated janitor and then to a young woman of 20 years. They both received the gift with tears, grace, and gratitude.

A Communion among patients

Chuck, one of the veteran patients proved to be my role model. The nurses wanted him to be gone because he was always standing up for patients’ rights, annoying the mandate that some of the nurses followed. I sensed that (either due to large numbers or too much work) the head psychiatrist was a little out of contact with what was happening in the three units.

Earlier, Chuck surprised me. He had noticed that my hospital issued socks were too small for me. He presented me with a new pair of Columbia brand socks, his wife, like Laura, had secretly smuggled in during visiting hours.

When meals were finished in the dining room, he would covertly smuggle uneaten containers of food and bring them to the community room for those who needed more to eat.

Thank you, Chuck. You are among the ones who inspired me to write this article.

When Chuck was to be released, he would intentionally write something dastardly on the form, implying he needed to stay. He once joked that once he wrote that he wanted to harm one of the bullying nurses.

Larry, my roommate, eventually started to join us in the community room, a high point was simply watching him at the main community table playing a wordless game with another patient of a different race who rarely spoke either. It was heartwarming to watch them.

When a new patient would approach me, a frequent question was: “What did you think of me when we first met?” They we so emotionally damaged they often didn’t know who they were. Once, while lying in bed, I felt that way – wondering if I was living in a reality or trapped into a nightmare – a nightmare where Laura was not cyberbullied by the brother-in-law, Joshua. I thought I had proof, but the photo was pulled out by FB administrators.

One new patient spent his time murmuring down the hallway that Satan was making him hate Jesus. Another man, who was kind and sensitive, tried to kill himself because his girlfriend had dumped him due to his timidity, preferring a ruthless (bullying) macho man.

Alex, a tall patient, asked me what I thought of him. The truth was easy: he was strong, handsome, and articulate. He had a pronounced intellectual quality. Later, I learned he was an artist. Soon, he was championing and protecting sensitive patients in our unit.

This led us to Christina, a petite and artistic young lady of twenty. She was one of the two people; Laura and I had given secret stems of carnations. I had assumed she was a victim of another word I dislike as much as bullying: misogyny. Later, during another visit, she gave Laura a Crayola drawing of her.

Chuck, Alex and the rest of us became her protectors when someone tried to bully or issue power over her.

CHAPTER FOUR

Paradise on the floor

I was moved to Unit Three, which really did seem like paradise in comparison to Unit Two. We were given more freedom, plus there was a balcony overlooking LA Chinatown so we could breathe fresh air, demonstrating the freedom which was to eventually come.

The sleeping accommodation was the same as Unit Two. My new roommate was a Spanish language poet and singer, and he would entertain us in group conferences, where we were all invited to join in. Like most of the inmates, he was close to being released.

Yet, there was trouble in paradise with a bullying, tyrannical head nurse, Marcus, who would order us around and mock us as crazy loonies behind our back. When I noticed this, I would ask them why they were not creating a healthy environment, which was emotionally essential to return to freedom. He would laugh and shrug his shoulders. They were like underqualified highway patrol cops who would pull anyone over without question.

The inch high pillow was a problem. I asked him if he could at least have a pillowcase. He threw one at me — “THAT SHOULD BE ENOUGH!” he said. At this point, I was only getting approximately three hours of sleep at night.

The head psychiatrist had informed both me and the rough head nurse, Marcus, that if I could not go back to sleep, I should approach the nurses’ station and ask for sleep medication. This was followed by a sandwich. It was a heavy dose of medication, and food was essential for digestion. The wrapped sandwich was grudgingly given to me. At this point, I became too intimidated to remind him to bring me the required sandwich after each sleep medication.

Enough was enough.

Just approaching the cruel nurse Marcus was all too much. I had a secret meeting with an alternative head nurse and social worker. I had a laundry list of insults, but what I had said was enough. My highly respected medical doctor (Dr. Hirshfeld) and Laura also changed the landscape in Unit Three — kindness, respect and professionalism was now required.

Marcus, the tyrannical nurse, was stripped of his power over me and three-other patients.

Freedom

I was released after ten days in the mental hospital. I thought I would return to a relativity normal life as my wife drove me home, but I still struggle, trying to understand the difference between good vs. evil. I’m not certain of the status of the bullying, brother-in-law, Joshua. We still receive images of self-grandeur on the family PTL app but nothing devoted to hurting Laura. Perhaps Laura’s family of siblings and in-laws really did step to the plate and strip him of his bullying power over others.

It was a long Ten Days that Shook my World. Now the healing continues.

POSTSCRIPT

Don’t be conflicted — just give! What I do wish is for everyone to understand is the plight of the mentally ill. Accept them as fellow human beings.

Once, when Pope Francis was in New York City, he wrote an op-ed in the New York Times. He wrote how every day we are approached by panhandlers and must make a moral decision if that person is worth a handout. Don’t be conflicted! Just give! And most importantly, look the person in the eye and illustrate that you accept them as a fellow human being.

I’m not certain if cyberbullying existed when Pope Francis wrote his op-ed in the New York Times, but am certain what he feels about it today.

Movies I recommend

• A Woman Under the Influence; John Cassavetes
• Tiitticut Follies: Fredrick Wiseman
• Shock Corridor: Samuel Fuller
• Let there Be Light: John Huston
• Lilith: Robert Rosen