Down the Rabbit Hole: The Kingdom of Control

Once, they said it was for our good.
They spoke in tongues of healing, draped in white,
and we believed them.

But the deeper we fall,
the more we see the shimmer of madness
was never ours alone.

It was psychiatry
that made itself priest of the mind,
gatekeeper of the soul.
But it was the government
that anointed it with power.

It was a psychiatrist, not a soldier,
who led the MK Ultra experiments—
a project funded by the CIA,
where silence was weaponized
and the human spirit was fractured by design.
They injected truth serum into innocence,
shocked memory into dust,
erased minds to build new ones,
obedient and hollow.
They called it therapy.
They called it science.
But it was state-sanctioned torture
dressed in the language of care.

In the hills of West Virginia,
it was psychiatry that pointed the finger—
unfit, too poor, too wild, too woman.
Thousands sterilized, their futures cut off in silence.
No courtroom. No witness.
Only a signature and a scalpel.

And behind that scalpel?
The state.
Public funds allocated to “health and welfare.”
Government agencies nodding in approval.
Legislatures writing laws that gave doctors
the authority to decide who was allowed to reproduce.
Philanthropic foundations applauded from afar.
It was never one man in a room.
It was policy. It was infrastructure.
A system built to erase.

It happened in West Virginia.
It happened in North Carolina.
It happened in California.
This wasn’t a deviation from the system—
this was the system.

And in Germany, before the gas chambers opened to the world,
they opened in the asylums.
Children deemed “defective” were the first to vanish.
Psychiatrists called it mercy.
The state called it necessary.
A genocide not of race at first—
but of mind.

This is the truth we are not meant to tell:
That psychiatry did not act alone.
It was given power—
legal, political, cultural.
A badge of legitimacy
by governments that feared difference,
that craved order,
that demanded obedience.

Even now, the control is cleaner—
wrapped in DSM codes and soft-spoken diagnoses.
But still, they come.
With syringes. With restraints. With forms that say:
You are no longer your own.

And who decides what is sane?
Who defines the edge between
sacred sensitivity and disorder,
between soul-speaking and psychosis?

Those who write the manuals?
Those trained to pathologize mystery?
Those paid to silence the scream of the soul
when it dares to rise?

We do not write this to condemn all.
There are kind hands within the system.
But systems do not need kindness.
They need truth.

And the truth is:
Psychiatry has not always healed.
Sometimes it has harmed.
Not because of bad apples,
but because of a hunger—
a need—
to control what cannot be tamed.
And a government willing to hand them the key.

And still, the soul rises.
Still, the heart remembers.
Still, we dare to speak.

So we follow the white rabbit further.
Not to be saved,
but to remember what was taken.
And to reclaim what was never theirs to own.