Bipolar Cossack: and the Trail of Terror

By Peter Melnyk

This is a true story of a young Canadian man who has psychosis and is commanded by voices to start travelling. His mental health deteriorates as he travels. He ends up in Kyiv, Ukraine. He somehow manages to meet with a group of Cossacks whom he finds shelter with and joins in on their operations. Eventually he returns home to meet an unfortunate end to his insane adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Sep 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9780228825074

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Bipolar Cossack

Copyright © 2020 by Peter Melnyk

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-2506-7 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-2507-4 (eBook)

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1: Welcome to Psychosis

Chapter 2: A Western Adventure

Chapter 3: Off to the East

Chapter 4: Snow

Chapter 5: Ivan the Cossack

Chapter 6: The Cossacks

Chapter 7: The Cossack March

Chapter 8: On the Road Again

Chapter 9: AK-47s and Moonshine

Chapter 10: Poland

Chapter 11: Prague

Chapter 12: Back Home

Chapter 13: A Common End to Psychosis

Epilogue

Introduction

This book is based on real events that happened around 2009/2010. Only the names have been changed. I’ve never heard of a crazier story due to a psychotic episode. This one involves travel and mental illness—a dangerous combination. Some of the ideas I thought of while mentally ill may be offensive to some and come off as racist. It needs to be remembered while reading that I was mentally ill while these ideas pre-occupied my mind. Otherwise I think this is one hell of a crazy and true story. I hope you enjoy my tale.

Chapter 1

Welcome to Psychosis

The history of Kievan Rus’ intrigued me. Kievan Rus’ was the first major state of the East Slav tribes and people. To me, this was the most interesting subject out there. A state which the Russians, Ukrainians, and Belarusians claim as the beginning of their nations, or even the beginning of their civilizations, was large and powerful, fending off Central Asian pastoral hordes and competing with their Western European neighbours. This was a state that protected Europe from raging nomadic Eurasian hordes such as the Pechenegs and Mongols, embraced Christianity to protect Europe from Islam, and may have even been founded by the rule of the Vikings from the North. Some historians claim that Kievan Rus’ was ruled by Slavs, while others claim that Kievan Rus’ invited Viking Nordic rulers to rule over them to create a stable peace.

The Soviet historian Tikhomirov argued that the Kievan Rus’ were as advanced as Western European states at this time. However, the rape and pillage by the Mongols and the sack of Kiev in 1240 led to its demise and acceptance of the Mongol yoke thereafter. This led to the end of the Kievan Rus’ existence and the beginning of the rule of the Golden Horde, a political entity and the de facto realm of the Mongol Horde under Genghis Khan.

My family originally came to Canada from Ukraine during World War II to flee the Soviet Union. I was brought up with a fair bit of Ukrainian culture and was interested in Ukrainian history.

So why was I getting so depressed that I no longer wanted to go to school? The onset of depression is not easy to detect when you don’t know what you’re dealing with. For me, the first signs of depression included a lack of interest in the things I normally enjoyed, new and strange beliefs, including the belief that I would become a doctor of medicine when all I had ever studied were the arts and humanities, and a loss of focus and long-term goals.

I originally wanted to become a professor of Ukrainian history as I always loved history. Sometime in my early twenties, I reasoned that I was Ukrainian, and I loved history, so I wanted to study Ukrainian and Eastern European history. When I was in high school, my father told me to pick a career that I would be passionate about, so I chose history. If I couldn’t become a professor, I would teach history in high school.

In February of my second semester at university, my depression got worse. I just didn’t care anymore. The destruction of my most passionate subject was not self-detectable. I didn’t realize what I was going through. I just didn’t give a fuck anymore. I went to see a school psychotherapist about my issue because I thought about dropping out of my program. I told her how I was feeling, and she offered to put me on anti-depressants. I refused because I didn’t believe in medication. To me, going on meds was like living a fake existence. When I told her more about how I was feeling and that I wanted to drop out of my program, she agreed to write me a note so as not to affect my grades academically. She also told me, This is how it starts. She was referring to the eventual mental health issues I’d face in life.

So, I dropped out of school. I was studying in a Master of Arts program, specializing in history at one of the best universities in Canada. When I told my program supervisor that I was dropping out, he was upset, a little concerned, as well as frustrated that the scholarship I had secured did not produce any solid results for the scholarship donor. They like to see students graduate and do something interesting or meaningful with the monies granted to them. I didn’t think of that at the time. I lost heart and started writing music instead.

Apple Logic is a software program that helps you write music. Using a midi, a device that resembles a keyboard, I created some industrial rock rhythms and supplied my own lyrics. I was a one-man show, with the help of a friend who provided the guitar solos and overall guitar work. The midi allows musicians to create synthetic drum beats, bass guitar, and organ sounds. It is quite a piece of technology.

My best song was slow with heavy percussion. It had a bit of a bass intro, and then it went straight into the heavy vocals, which in my description, sounded like Rob Zombie mixed with Johnny Cash:

"Up in the winds,

Surrounded by the wraths of fire,

Let em’ roll,

And listen to them whine,

Sadistic-masochistic spirit,

Shrivelling their will,

Disrupting their heart,

Disrupting their mind,

We like what’s fucked up,

We like what’s fucked up,

Send me a truck,

With a hundred hungry wolves,

Run me over,

And feed my heart,

To the motherfucking carnivores,

We like getting fucked up, we like what’s fucked up."

Very intelligent lyrics, but it sure packed a powerful punch. I got it professionally produced at a recording studio in Toronto too. People generally believed the music to be pretty good; it was deep, dark, rhythmic, and powerful. It was the kind of music that would challenge gangster rappers for masculine beats and a full sound.

But sure enough, my music career wasn’t going anywhere either. After producing my second song, I was under pressure to survive, provide for myself, make money, and be financially responsible. My mother would say, You dropped out of school, so what are you going to do now? Why don’t you get a job or go to teacher’s college? I thought about my options, looked on Craigslist for jobs that I was qualified for with a B.A. in the 21st century, and the outlook was grim. I looked under the Education tab and saw an English teaching job in South Korea. It paid 2,300,000 Won per month, which is about $2,300 Canadian per month. The position offered a free plane ticket, free room, and five weeks paid vacation. Did that sound good? Uh… hell, yeah. For a guy like me—a traveller, wanderer, and teacher-type—this deal was too good to be true.

I responded to the ad, and sure enough, I got an interview. It was not much of an interview. The head of the English department, Mr. Lee, asked me a few questions, such as, Why do you want to be a teacher? and Have you ever been overseas before? Of course, he said all of this in broken English. They were just looking for someone to take over for a teacher who pulled a midnight runner. This is a term I use for teachers who take off during the night back to their home country without telling anybody! A lot of Westerners can’t stand Korea. The food is pungent (note: kimchi), the culture is male-dominated (note: a good thing for men), and it’s a geographically small country the size of southern Ontario populated by around 50 million people.

I wondered about the political situation in Korea, the fact that they were technically at war with North Korea, and the communist dictatorship only 55km north of the South Korean capital, Seoul. It’s been peaceful between the two nations since the Korean war ended in a draw in 1953. This was pretty much the only remnant of the Cold War. Germany broke down the Iron Curtain, and the Soviet Union failed. The Russians fell back into a corrupt, mostly capitalist, fake democracy, the Chinese had to adapt to the new world system while maintaining their communist ideology, and the North Koreans remained Communist and a hard-core dictatorship. The country has a strong military but still lacks industry and human rights.

So, in no time, I answered my mother’s concern about my future by jumping on a free ticket to the Orient. Korea baby! An old Korean driver picked me up at the airport and drove me to the place that I was going to call home for the next year. It was in Seoul, one hell of a big city, with fantastic public transportation. My room was small, damp, had mould near the window, and the washroom seemed to be growing moss. Yeah, I’m a pampered Westerner, I thought.

At the outset, everything about Korea seemed fine to me. Since I lived in a room on campus, the commute from my studio apartment to the school was 30-seconds long. I had good co-teachers (all Americans), met interesting fellas and nice women, and enjoyed good barbecued meat, like pork-belly and pork steak. During the first month, all the male teachers got totally shit-faced and chased women. There were some Western women at the bars that we all hung out at, some Eastern European women who were studying at Korean schools, and a shitload of Korean women too. It didn’t matter what we were chasing—we were young, had money, and no cares in the world.

During our free time, we played badminton, lifted weights, played baseball with a team of Canadians, hit the bars, went to clubs, and taught English hungover. What a life. Life was good.

Teaching was fun. We didn’t have teaching degrees, just Bachelor of Arts and Bachelor of Science degrees. The students were great. There was a group of students who were ‘gifted’. They were educated overseas in Britain or America, and they spoke English fluently but had come back to Korea to partake in their country. I agreed with this Korean educational philosophy. I thought it was smart to educate citizens internationally and have them return home to help their state/country in the struggle against other states/countries. This was particularly true in South Korea, as they are technically still at war with North Korea. No peace has yet been made. These students were expected to go into the military right after high school and be on guard for democracy and capitalism against dictatorship and communism. This was my kind of country. I hated communism. Like many people of Eastern European descent who immigrated to the West to flee communism, some of my family’s land was taken away by the Communists. It’s not a nice feeling when everything you’ve worked for, including land and capital, gets taken away from you and becomes re-distributed among the common folk, lazy or not.

The Korean teachers would gather on Mondays to play badminton at the school gymnasium. The foreign teachers were invited to play with them. I was quite good at badminton—the best among the foreigners by a long shot. I could spot the shuttlecock along the lines, and smash the birdie down with authority. The foreign English teachers never had badminton racquets, but we found some in the laundry room. No one ever questioned the fact that the racquets were strong and safe.

One Monday, I was horsing around with another foreign teacher, Greg. We were casually hitting the birdie back and forth and were getting some nice high lobs in. We got into a rhythm and were smashing the birdie back at each other. I would lob it to him, and he’d smash it right back at me, and then I’d return it to him, and he’d lob it to me, and I’d smash it back at him. On we went, for about 15 minutes or so. Then a high lob came right in my sweet spot. I reached back with all my strength and smashed the birdie as hard as I could right at my opponent. The next thing I knew, Greg was on the ground clutching his face. I was still holding the handle of the racquet, but the stem and face of the racquet were gone! The stem had landed an inch from his eye, square in the face, and knocked him flat on his back. I couldn’t believe it.

As he lay squirming on the ground, the Koreans called an ambulance for him. I felt bad. I watched the ambulance come and take him to the hospital. It turns out the racquets in the laundry room were meant for the garbage. Never safe and never sound. Lesson learned: always use top-quality equipment. It turned out that Greg was all right, he just needed some stitches. However, I don’t think the Koreans trusted the foreigners anymore. Greg was one inch away from going blind in one eye. It has stayed with me until this day.

I started getting paranoia in Korea. As I was coming home from a drunken night, I noticed Chin, the lone Korean teacher who lived in the teacher’s compound, sitting in his car, near the gate. I figured he was spying on me. I thought the head of the school had sent him to spy on me to see what I was up to. Obviously, the Koreans wanted to know more about me. They were suspicious of foreigners, after all.

From then on, every time Chin drove past me, I immediately heightened my senses and wondered what I was doing wrong. This was a new feeling for me. However, I didn’t notice it too much at the time. After these paranoid thoughts, I went along with my life and continued to think of friends, work, travel, and home.

There were no voices or anything in my head, just paranoia. I wasn’t even feeling depressed. My life was going on as normal. I’d work hard during the week, exercise, drink a bit, and then party on the weekend, whacking down the joke that is Korean beer and chasing women.

One day, I was sitting outside a convenience store, having a bottle of iced coffee when a middle-aged, sharply dressed Korean man came up to me. In good speaking English, he asked, Are you an English teacher?

Yes, I replied.

That’s what I’m looking for, he said. I’m looking for someone to help me start my business empire. I need a native English teacher to help me with my plans to start an English language school. My name is John.

Oh, that sounds interesting, I replied. However, I already have a job and work full time. I’m Peter.

No problem, you can start working part-time with me. What school did you study at?

York University, I answered. I have to go teach right now. I must get back to work.

Not a problem, give me your cell phone number so that I can get in touch with you.

OK. I gave him my cell phone number and went off to teach my class.

The weekend arrived, and I received a call from John on Saturday morning. How are you, Peter?

I’m fine. And you, John?

Very well, thank you. I’d like to meet today to discuss my plans further. Can you come over to my apartment?

Sure, I said. Let’s meet at the convenience store where we had met in an hour.

OK, sounds good, John said.

I met him there in an hour, and we walked to his apartment. It was a large, spacious, clean apartment decorated in Western-style. It had hardwood floors, comfy sofas, and a clean dining area. He went over to his stereo and put on some music. Desperado came on, but not the Johnny Cash cover, the original. For some reason, I started to freak out and think about home. I also began to wonder if this guy was a con artist or something. My mind began racing, and I began to overthink everything, wondering if this guy was trying to get me to invest money in his company or something. He finished giving me his spiel about his plans and ambitions, and we both agreed to stay in touch. I left for my apartment.

Another week passed, and one day, as I was coming home from work, I thought I saw white powder on the numbered code for my door. The door could only open if the numbers were punched into the pad. I figured that someone was taking my fingerprints to figure out the code on my lock. After all, Chin was following me anyway. John, the businessman, probably also wanted to get into my place. Illogical thinking. However, to me, it made sense that people were breaking into my room to see what I was up to. I was starting to panic and thought that something was up. I felt drastically uncomfortable and wasn’t thinking straight. I became scared. I began to experience a feeling of genuine fear that I’d never experienced before. I had never felt fear. I had too much confidence for that.

I packed my suitcase and put my Mac computer in its box. Yeah, Mac computers are the best, and they are easily transportable too. I called Air Canada and booked the next direct flight to Toronto. I just wanted to go home. I was panicking. I knew it was sudden, but my paranoia was blitzing me, and it started to come on fast and strong. I knew I would be safe at home. I called an English language taxi at 11:15 P.M., and the cab showed up 15 minutes later. I was off to the airport, and thus, I had become a midnight runner, and a bad investment for the school I was teaching in.

When my parents received a call from me from the airport the next day, they didn’t know what the hell was going on. They thought I was still teaching in Korea. What had happened? What had gone wrong? I told them I was feeling uncomfortable and didn’t feel right. I said I didn’t like the school, and that my supervisors were acting funny. I didn’t tell them about my paranoia, or the strangeness I felt. I didn’t talk about my fear either. I don’t know why, but I just didn’t talk about it.

I lay in bed, thinking of how relaxed I felt that I got the hell out of there. No more paranoia, only comfort. It felt good. But what was I going to do with myself now? I looked at it objectively. I dropped out of school, and I left my work contract in Korea. I needed to do something about my future, about making enough money to survive and settle down, and all that. My mother was already on my case.

As usual, I would just take it easy, exercise, and read. I would go to my local community gym and do my usual weightlifting routine. I would run for 15 minutes on the treadmill at about 10km/hr, and then do a weightlifting routine of either push or pull muscles. On push muscle days, I would start with bench presses, do leg presses, shoulder presses, calf presses, tricep exercises, and leg extensions. Then I would do sit-ups and would cool down with a 15-minute run. On pull days, I would run for 15 minutes at the same pace, do chin-ups, squats, lateral pulldowns, leg curls, bicep curls, more sit-ups, and a 15-minute cool-down. Yes, I was in shape. I was 27 years old, 6 feet tall, and weighed 210 pounds. I looked like a hockey player. I had a full head of light brown hair and a medium-dense beard too.

On my way home, I would put on some