Quanti omicidi hanno origine dal disagio mentale? Quante sono le persone abbandonate ai loro problemi e bombardate di psicofarmaci fin da bambini che finiscono tragicamente il loro percorso di dimenticati in un suicidio o dietro le sbarre? Quante sono le famiglie lasciate da sole, senza alcun tipo di sostegno, nell'affrontare questo problema? Non me lo ricordo nemmeno quando sono stati "aboliti" i manicomi. "Un'aberrazione", si è detto a ragione. Cancellati. Sostituiti da quali strutture? Ma l'elettrosciock c'è ancora. Ha una forma diversa. Quella della lobotomia quotidiana somministrata in pillole. In bombe chimiche che sostituiscono o dovrebbero sostituire camice di forza e altre torture medievali patite dai matti, i matti, nei vecchi manicomi. Anni fa, mi sono interessato della questione. Niente. Oltre le terapie farmacologiche, oltre i bombardamenti di psicofarmaci, alle families who want to help a loved one is not AlCu proposed alternative to the expectation that their loved one die and stop being a nuisance, a problem, a monster, a freak, a chronic misfit, a poor man, a suicide or a murderess . You just have to wait. Mortified. Without hope. Terrified by tomorrow. And 'that should take care of this policy. The prison in which they are locked up thousands of families and hundreds of thousands of crazy, pull out those for which the expression of mental distress. A prison immaterial. Before Garfunkel sang that song in Sanremo there was another great singer-songwriter to talk about this tragedy in one of his songs. "The crazy" by Francesco De Gregori is incredibly true. Returns exactly to the listener the sensation of cold, empty and cold experienced by those who know, who lives or those who share the tragedy of mental illness. It 's a maze without escape. One of the maze without escape. One of the many for whom the policy must begin to build maps, routes, offering an alternative to the horror and helplessness. Otherwise we are condemned to be the company we are. Demented. Obtuse. Television. Inconsistent. Schizophrenic. Chemically neutral and lost.
I go crazy happy, between the camp and the railway.
Hunting for grasshoppers and snakes, hunting for crickets and snakes.
I go crazy happy to lead the madness
chasing crickets and snakes, between the field and the railway.
I have nothing crazy, more than any city around them, even if
who hears them scream, yell, even if it does.
I go crazy happy, on the edge of normality,
like shooting stars, on the Sea of \u200b\u200bTranquillity.
transporting large plastic bags of the total weight of the heart,
full of garbage and silence, full of cold and noise.
I do not have the heart or mad if they do is wasted,
is an all-black cave.
I crazy to think there is still a train never arrived
a wife and taken away by some kind of storm.
I crazy to walk without a license,
the crazy life, into the night, locked.
I go crazy happy, stop traffic with his hand, then
through the morning, with the help of a bottle of wine.
They stop long hours, to rest, the bones and wings,
bones and wings, and inside the churches we go to smoke,
hundreds of cigarettes before the altar.
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