>to read ro watch
Proofread.
>Hell, they only outlawed lobotomies a few decades ago, and that was mostly due to how much of a PR nightmare it resulted in due to the Kennedy family.
To much 'due to' due to the overuse of 'due to' in the sentence due to repetition?
>I’m scared haunted
I like the phrase but it doesn't read like you intended to coin it.

>>16561
>I like the phrase but it doesn't read like you intended to coin it.

I think that's because it's an anomaly. If there were even one more construction like it, it would have that bit of intentionality that's missing now.

OP here, sorry for my laziness. In reality I actually corrected those mistakes, and lengthened the work, but for some bizarre reason I had an urge to jump the gun on trying to get criticism. Needless to say, I realize why that was stupid of me.

Here, have the lengthened, corrected version:
Thank god for the drugs.

The doctor tells me I should feel grateful. A couple decades back, they took people like me (though I still resent his lumping me in with the rest of these subhuman shits) and stuffed them all between four cement walls. They only had their fellow outcasts and nurses and doctors who considered them little more than animals to keep them company, and sometimes they didn’t even have that. Sometimes they would be kept in conditions that the outside world would compare to violent criminals: complete isolation with nothing to do but stare at the walls and occasionally eat and shit. In either case they would rarely give you anything to read or watch, because of the possibility that it would somehow distress you.

And God help you if you rebelled against those conditions. Hell, they only outlawed lobotomies a few decades ago, and that was mostly due to how much of a PR nightmare it resulted in due to the Kennedy family.

So, how did conditions improve? Better question: what forced them to improve?

The development of more drugs. The “therapeutic community” resulted in little more than sustained stability for most, and every last one of them no matter the condition was still a drain on taxpayer resources. So what did they do? Why, they made our sustainment into a fucking business, of course, and used the cement boxes only with those whose wiring had shorted in such a way that even chemical intervention wouldn’t stop them from posing a potential threat to others.

Now, we’re robbed of our distinction on a compulsory basis, so we can participate in “civil society”. I don’t mind this, though, because otherwise I’m haunted by the possibility of demons popping out of the ether to bite my nuts off or the eyes of those that stare at me when I think of such things emitting beams that burrow into my brain and make holes in it.

That, and now I know how to see through the euphuisms in these little history lectures. Thank god for the drugs alright.

Back at the doctor’s office, I continue to nod while he finishes his little speech with, “... just remember how much progress the rest of society has made to better the lots of good young men and women like you. You may resent how heavy-handed we in the profession seem at times, but I know personally that it’s all for your own good; that’s certainly the case with me, at least.”

He seems to think feigning some sort of personal investment in the “care” of the vermin I now find myself representing is bound to make me more complaint. What should I care? I know from my time in the ward that most of the people he deals with aren’t worth the food nor the air. So fuck him, either he’s being disingenuous about giving a shit or he has really low standards when it comes to those he thinks deserve compassion.

Speaking of the doc, I haven’t called him by his name, have I? Weird, I never bothered to remember it; all he ever expects me to call him is sir anyway. I glance at his nameplate but can’t pronounce it, so I’ll refer to him as just that: Doc.

His name sounds Russian, but I think he’s from one of the ex-Yugoslav countries: this place loves to get the cheapest certified immigrants possible.

It reminds me of yet another history lecture, this one from the last person in charge of pretending to give a shit and listening for the clicks and chirps that evidently indicate which pills I would need to swallow that month. It was about how the Soviets used to use psychiatry to put potential political offenders in prison, because in the Soviet Union they didn’t even bother making the (albeit slim) distinction between prisons and mental hospitals. What’s really funny about that story is how absolutely no one objected, because even the Krauts, anarchists and religious nutters in the gulags were seen with more concern.

I’m not sure if the Chinks did that, but I do know they haven’t stopped lobotomizing people.

I’ve been out of the psych ward for two weeks, and this was the first scheduled appointment after my discharge. I can’t tell what Doc thinks of my progress; after all, I’m saying as little as possible, and I hardly think my body language is making much of a good impression, given the state of my thoughts.

Apparently I was right in worrying about that; he seems to grow concerned at my unresponsiveness. His lips, before then wearing a fake smile, flatten out again and his brows knit in thought.