Dealing with the Human Problem

The blueprint to a compliant society

My journey to becoming a psychologist was far from conventional. Unlike many of my peers, I didn't follow the typical academic route of participating in undergraduate research labs to secure a spot in a prestigious PhD program. Instead, my undergraduate degree was in history and education—I had envisioned a future as a history teacher and football coach.

Life, however, had other plans. An unexpected turn led me to accept a position at a children's psychiatric hospital, where I found myself working with children as young as five years old.

What circumstances could drive children so young into the confines of a psychiatric hospital? The answer is as heartbreaking as it is complex. Most often, these children exhibited violent or aggressive behavior in school settings, their distress manifesting as severe tantrums that defied typical classroom management. On the other end of the spectrum were those who, in hushed tones, confided to trusted school personnel their desire to end their young lives.

Peeling back the layers of these behaviors revealed a harrowing truth: the vast majority of these innocent children were victims of physical and emotional violence. Those spared direct abuse often bore witness to violence in their homes or communities, or struggled under the crushing weight of poverty-induced stress.

Despite my lack of formal training in psychology, I intuitively understood that these children's emotional and behavioral reactions were rational responses to their circumstances. These were not symptoms of inherent mental illness, but rather desperate cries for help from young souls struggling with trauma far beyond their comprehension. Their actions, alarming as they might appear on the surface, were rational responses to irrational circumstances—survival mechanisms deployed in a world that had betrayed their trust and safety.

This position exposed me to the psychiatric industrial complex for the first time. I watched as these children were branded with what seemed to me absurd labels: Oppositional Defiant Disorder, ADHD, and Childhood Bipolar Disorder (then in vogue) were the most common culprits.

I found myself questioning aloud: "Are we really pathologizing these clearly traumatized children's reactions as psychiatric illnesses?" My inquiries often created discomfort within the established order of the psychiatric hospital.

The children's anger, tantrums, and profound sadness were viewed as inconveniences by the adults in their lives. From school systems to family members, social workers to psychiatrists—all saw the behavior as the problem. The solution? Powerful psychotropic drug combinations that dulled their spirits and sedated them into compliant submission.

Unit jargon reduced the range of emotions, thoughts, and behaviors to mere "symptoms," with successful treatment defined by their dissipation. Children would be returned to their communities, sedated and compliant—easier to handle, but at what cost?

The psychiatric establishment, in its quest to categorize and "treat" human experiences, seemed to adopt an almost utopian perspective on human nature. This viewpoint appeared to regard any unwanted emotion or behavior as a genetic mishap or chemical imbalance, rather than a natural response to life's complexities.

The primary objective became to rid individuals of these experiences, as if human existence should be a seamless, conflict-free journey. In my observation, this approach transformed psychiatry into an unwitting arm of authoritarian institutions, valuing compliance above all else. The implicit message became clear:

Sit down.

Shut up.

Accept what is happening.

Follow the rules.

Be a good little patient.

Being human was a problem.

This paradigm effectively pathologized normal human reactions to adversity, trauma, and injustice. Instead of acknowledging the validity of anger, sadness, or restlessness in the face of challenging circumstances, the psychiatric model sought to chemically subdue these responses.

In doing so, it risked stripping individuals of their capacity for righteous indignation, necessary grief, or the restlessness that often precedes positive change. This approach not only dismissed the wisdom inherent in our emotional responses but also served to maintain societal status quo by dulling natural instincts to question, resist, and transform our environment.

The human psyche is both complex and predictable. Our emotions and behaviors serve critical functions for survival and resilience. An aggressive reaction to a perceived threat is a functional, adaptive response to a dangerous and abusive environment. The psychiatric unit I worked displayed a clear range of reactions to fear. However, none of this was tolerable to the adults and the "expert" class, who seemed to have a fundamental issue with human nature itself.

Rather than addressing the root causes of these children's behaviors, the focus was on altering their brain chemistry—and by extension, their human experience. During treatment team meetings, I observed psychiatrists, nurses, and social workers debating "diagnoses" as if they were scientifically sound. My naive, untrained self often referred to this range of reactions simply as "the human problem," much to the chagrin of my colleagues.

Imagine the profound disorientation and betrayal experienced by these children, thrust into a system that told them their emotions and behaviors were the problem, rather than the horrific circumstances they endured.

Picture a young girl, victim of molestation at home, being sedated for her outbursts of anger and fear. Or a boy, witness to his alcoholic father's violent rages against his mother, labeled as "oppositional" for his defensive aggression. These children, already bearing the weight of trauma beyond their years, were now burdened with the message that their very natural, human reactions to abuse and violence were somehow wrong or sick. The system, in its misguided approach, effectively gaslit these young victims, invalidating their experiences and teaching them to doubt their own perceptions and feelings.

This perverse inversion of blame not only failed to heal these children but risked compounding their trauma, instilling a deep-seated belief that their suffering was a personal failing rather than a normal response to abnormal circumstances. In essence, they were being punished and pathologized for their resilience, for their desperate attempts to cope with a world that had already failed them so profoundly.

After leaving the psychiatric hospital, I remained in the human services field, taking on a role as a juvenile probation officer. I worked in a specialized unit, dealing exclusively with juvenile delinquents who had psychiatric diagnoses. Driven by a desire to better understand and help these young individuals, I pursued a Master's Degree in Counseling.

My work took me into the heart of impoverished areas, providing in-home therapy and working within local schools. All of this occurred before I even considered pursuing a doctorate degree. While I lacked the prestigious academic training that graduate programs in clinical psychology typically covet, I possessed something equally valuable: hands-on, real-world experience.

By the time I applied for my doctoral program, I was already a father of two young children. This life experience, coupled with high scores on entrance exams measuring analytic writing and verbal reasoning, compensated for my less-than-stellar academic credentials. The admissions committee recognized a maturity and depth of experience that set me apart from traditional applicants.

In retrospect, I see that staying out of the academic "bubble" early on was a gift. It allowed me to maintain a critical perspective and challenge authority when necessary. My upbringing didn't instill an automatic respect for the established order, and I hadn't learned to play by the conventional rules. This unconventional background fostered an independence of thought that proved invaluable in my future work.

This journey, though unconventional, equipped me with a nuanced understanding of the complexities of human behavior and the shortcomings of the mental health industry. It positioned me to approach psychology with a fresh, critical eye, unencumbered by the biases often ingrained in traditional academic pathways.

I quickly came to a sobering realization about how the mental health industry viewed the complexities of human experience. The raw, messy aspects of being human were often misunderstood or deliberately mischaracterized.

Anger, a natural and often necessary response to abuse, neglect, or injustice, was rarely seen as valid or essential. Instead, it was pathologized, treated as a symptom to be suppressed rather than a signal to be heeded.

The profound sadness that accompanies abandonment and loneliness was seldom recognized for what it truly was: a reflection of our fundamental need for human attachment and the critical importance of relationships. These emotions, rather than being understood as natural responses to difficult circumstances, were often hastily labeled as disorders.

Children who struggled to focus on tasks that adults deemed important, regardless of their personal interests or the challenging situations they faced at home, were quickly branded with ADHD. This diagnosis often came without a thorough examination of the child's environment, interests, or emotional state.

What I observed was a growing industry dedicated not to understanding and addressing the root causes of human suffering, but to treating the unwanted experiences of being human as if they were aberrations to be corrected. This approach seemed to prioritize conformity and convenience over genuine healing and growth.

I viewed this as purposeful. Still do.

There is a human problem.

The most searing pain and profound trauma are not just personal tragedies—they are the catalysts of revolution and radical change. History shows us that institutions crumble and empires fall not in times of comfort, but when despair ignites the flames of uprising. The powerful, those who benefit from the status quo, understand this all too well.

They know that their dark secrets and ill-gotten gains are safeguarded not by locks and guards, but by the silence of their victims. This silence is maintained through a insidious form of psychological warfare: convincing the vulnerable that they themselves are the problem.

By pathologizing righteous anger, medicalizing grief, and stigmatizing trauma responses, the system perpetuates itself. It transforms potential revolutionaries into patients, dissenters into diagnoses.

But herein lies the greatest fear of the powerful: that one day, the victims might realize that their pain is not a disorder to be treated, but a clarion call for justice. That their trauma is not a personal failing, but a indictment of a broken system. For in that realization lies the seeds of true revolution—a uprising of the human spirit against those who would seek to suppress it. And against such an awakening, no amount of power or privilege can stand.

You see there is a human problem that must be dealt with.

The Power in Diagnosis

My first exposure to the DSM and psychiatric diagnoses came at a time before social media and the internet had popularized these concepts. There were no influencers or YouTube channels dedicated to "living with ADHD" or other trendy disorders. To learn how to "diagnose" - as if we were “real doctors" - we were required to memorize categories of human experience, neatly packaged into clinical labels.

Many of my classmates, often younger than me, excelled at playing the academic game. They were agreeable, rule-followers who knew how to secure top grades and say the right things to curry favor. In their eyes, this was the definition of success. I'd witness some of them reduced to tears over receiving a B on an exam or paper, as if their entire worth hinged on these arbitrary assessments.

These individuals, so focused on pleasing authority figures, had little incentive to think critically, challenge established norms, or authentically serve those suffering. Their goal was not to revolutionize the field or question its foundations, but to fit seamlessly into the existing structure.

As we explored DSM diagnoses, these same classmates began eagerly diagnosing themselves, their friends, and their families. It was as if they had been initiated into an exclusive club, suddenly wielding the power to label others. They reveled in this newfound authority, feeling that they now possessed knowledge others lacked.

What was most concerning was their unwavering acceptance of these diagnostic categories. They displayed no capacity to question the validity of what they were learning. Instead, they unquestioningly trusted the hierarchy and established order, never pausing to consider the broader implications of pathologizing human experiences.

This blind acceptance of psychiatric dogma seemed to stem from a deeper need for certainty and authority in an inherently uncertain field. By clinging to these labels and diagnoses, my classmates could feel like they were mastering the complexities of the human mind, even if this mastery was illusory. Their eagerness to diagnose reflected not just academic zeal, but a fundamental misunderstanding of the nuanced, often messy nature of human psychology.

I found myself questioning aloud how every undesirable human experience could be so easily labeled as a disorder. It seemed to push a utopian view of humanity, one where any deviation from an idealized norm was pathologized.

More disturbingly, I began to see how this framework could be used to propagate dangerous ideologies and industrial "solutions" to what was essentially being framed as the "human problem." The pharmaceutical industry, therapy modalities, and even educational systems all stood to benefit from this widespread labeling of human experiences as disorders.

At the time, I couldn't have predicted how rapidly this trend would accelerate. The proliferation of diagnoses, the eagerness with which people would come to embrace these labels, and the industrial complex that would grow around "treating" these so-called disorders was beyond my imagination.

Looking back, I realize that my initial skepticism was well-founded. What I witnessed was the beginning of a paradigm shift in how we view human nature itself - a shift that has had profound implications for individuals, society, and the very concept of mental health.

The psychiatric establishment has become a powerful tool for social control, weaponizing mental illness labels to discredit dissenting voices and maintain the status quo. Speak out against societal norms, and you risk being branded with a diagnosis that undermines your credibility.

Are your emotions too intense in response to tyranny, control, or abuse? You're labeled as "out of control," possibly bipolar, or afflicted with a "personality disorder." This system of labeling serves to keep individuals compliant, exploiting the human instinct to conform. It's a subtle yet potent form of oppression, discouraging people from straying too far from the flock for fear of being pathologized.

Consider the countless women, victims of sexual or physical violence, who find themselves hospitalized and labeled with bipolar disorder or "borderline personality disorder" - their trauma repackaged as a personal defect. Or the brave soldiers, initially propagandized to believe they were fighting for freedom, who witness the harsh realities of war - the killing of innocent civilians, the deaths of their comrades - only to be diagnosed with PTSD and medicated into numbness when they dare to question the lies they were fed. This is not accidental; it's a calculated strategy to silence dissent and maintain control.

By pathologizing natural human responses to injustice and trauma, the mental health industry becomes complicit in perpetuating the very systems that cause harm. It's a perverse cycle where those who react most strongly to societal ills are labeled as sick, their valid critiques dismissed as symptoms of disorder. This approach not only fails to address the root causes of distress but actively impedes individual and collective healing, ensuring that the status quo remains unchallenged and unchanged.

Self Fulfilling Prophecies

The insidious power of gaslighting, diagnoses, and pathologizing emotions creates a vicious cycle of self-doubt and alienation. When society consistently tells individuals that their natural emotional reactions are "disorders," it warps their perception of reality. This systematic invalidation human emotions is a form of psychological warfare, leaving victims questioning their own sanity and judgment.

As the pain of this cognitive dissonance becomes unbearable, people inevitably seek escape. Some retreat into socially acceptable forms of suppression and compliance, numbing themselves to maintain the illusion of normalcy. These individuals often receive praise for their "resilience" or "adjustment," further reinforcing the toxic idea that silencing one's authentic self is the path to wellness.

SSRI’s save my life they proclaim. In some respects this is very true.

Others, unable to conform, internalize the message that they are fundamentally flawed. This belief drives them towards self-destructive coping mechanisms - substance abuse, disordered eating, self-harm - desperate attempts to escape the intolerable weight of their emotions. Cruelly, these behaviors then become new labels in the diagnostic manual, further pathologizing their pain.

The system thus creates its own self-fulfilling prophecy. By labeling human suffering as disorder, it pushes people towards behaviors that fit its predetermined categories. A person's attempt to numb their pain becomes "substance use disorder," their struggles with food in response to trauma become "eating disorders," the expected and necessary challenges becomes an "adjustment disorder." Each new label further obscures the root causes of distress, focusing on individual "defects" rather than examining our cultural failures.

This cycle serves to maintain the status quo, distracting from the need for systemic change by keeping individuals trapped in a loop of self-blame and fruitless attempts at "self-improvement."

Take Care of Your Mental Health

"Taking care of your mental health" has become a Trojan horse, a wolf in sheep's clothing that ushers you into the very system designed to suppress your humanity. It's an invitation to expose your raw, authentic self to strangers indoctrinated by an industry that pathologizes the human experience.

These "professionals," wielding their DSM bibles and prescription pads like divine instruments, are often nothing more than well-intentioned pawns in a grand game of social control. They've been indoctrinated to view your pain as pathology, your righteous anger as disorder, your profound grief as mere chemical imbalance.

I've sat beside them in lecture halls, watched them in training, seen their eyes light up at the power of labeling human experiences. They're the ones who color within the lines with religious fervor, who tremble at the mere suggestion of challenging authority. These are the good students, the rule-followers, the ones who find comfort in rigid diagnoses and cookie-cutter treatments.

Critical thinking?

It terrifies them.

Questioning the system?

Unthinkable.

They cling to their professional identities like life rafts in a sea of uncertainty, desperate to believe in the infallibility of their training. They're REALLY GOOD at playing nice, at nodding sympathetically while reducing your life's struggles to a checklist of symptoms. They're the perfect products of a system designed not to heal, but to categorize, sedate, and control. Their greatest fear isn't your suffering—it's the possibility that your pain might be a rational response to a sick society, a truth that would shatter their carefully constructed worldview and render their expertise meaningless.

"Taking care of your mental health" in this context doesn't mean healing; it means conforming. It means swallowing pills to numb the very emotions that make you human, that drive you to question, to rebel, to demand change. It's a subtle form of gaslighting, convincing you that your natural reactions to an insane world are the problem, not the world itself.

This system doesn't want you mentally healthy; it wants you docile, compliant, and too medicated to challenge the status quo. True mental health isn't found in a therapist's office or a bottle of pills—it's in reconnecting with your authentic self, embracing your emotions as valid responses to your experiences, and channeling that energy into creating real change in the world around you.

You see… you are a problem. Everything that makes you human.

They say you find God on the jail house floor. In a spiritual and transformational sense this is true. It's in these raw, unfiltered moments of human experience, these spaces society deems as rock bottom, where we truly confront ourselves. Here, stripped of pretense, of societal norms, of the labels and diagnoses that have been slapped on us, we find our real selves.

This is where we "find God"—not the sanitized version approved by institutions, but the primal, transformative force within us. It's here, in the spaces society fears and medicine tries to eradicate, that we touch the core of our humanity. The system would have us believe these moments are symptoms to be treated, experiences to be avoided. But they are, in fact, the crucibles of genuine change, the birthplaces of authentic self-understanding. It's not in avoiding these depths, but in fully experiencing them, that we find our truest path to healing.

You see... they've declared being human the ultimate disorder. Your resilience? A defect. Your emotions? A malfunction. The fire in your soul? A dangerous symptom. But remember: what they label as illness is your greatest strength. Your pain, your rage, your refusal to conform—these aren't problems to be solved. They're the sparks of revolution, the seeds of change. Don't let them sedate your spirit. Your humanity isn't a disease—it's the cure.

Be a problem.