After ten days, i was discharged from the hospital over the objections of my doctor, brought to the middlesex county jail for men, and kept in solitary confinement from February 1974 until May 1974.

I told my psychiatrist that everyone hates me. He said I was being ridiculous - everyone hasn't met me yet.

But after I got them to leave and shut the door and turned off the light it wasn't any good. It was like saying good-by to a statue. After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain.

"I think there must be probably different types of suicides. I'm not one of the self-hating ones. The type of like "I'm shit and the world'd be better off without poor me" type that says that but also imagines what everybody'll say at their funeral. I've met types like that on wards. Poor-me-I-hate-me-punish-me-come-to-my-funeral. Then they show you a 20 X 25 glossy of their dead cat. It's all self-pity bullshit. It's bullshit. I didn't have any special grudges. I didn't fail an exam or get dumped by anybody. All these types. Hurt themselves. I didn't want to especially hurt myself. Or like punish. I don't hate myself. I just wanted out. I didn't want to play anymore is all. I wanted to just stop being conscious. I'm a whole different type. I wanted to stop feeling this way. If I could have just put myself in a really long coma I would have done that. Or given myself shock I would have done that. Instead."

I am exiting the wider world, to return to my homeland of bullying, psychosis, and bad taste. Forgive me. It is a medical matter.

I thought, acted, and thereupon found myself removed.

I told my psychiatrist, “Doc, I keep thinking I’m a dog.” He told me to get off his couch.

I’ve wrestled with alligators,
I’ve tussled with a whale.
I done handcuffed lightning
And throw thunder in jail.
You know I’m bad.
just last week, I murdered a rock,
Injured a stone, Hospitalized a brick.
I’m so mean, I make medicine sick.

If you have assumed any character beyond your strength, you have both demeaned yourself ill in that and quitted one which you might have supported.

Do not proffer sympathy to the mentally ill; it is a bottomless pit. Tell them firmly, “I am not paid to listen to this drivel — you are a terminal fool!” Otherwise, they make you as crazy as they are.

"Pasados unos meses observé que muchos médicos evitaban rutinariamente referirse a cualquier cosa que tuviera que ver con la muerte. A los enfermos moribundos se los trataba tan mal como a mis pacientes psiquiátricos del hospital estatal. Se los rechazaba y maltrataba. Nadie era sincero con ellos. Si un enfermo de cáncer preguntaba "¿Me voy a morir?", el médico le contestaba "¡Oh, no! no diga tonterías"."

I was in and out of the hospital almost daily from then on.
They X-rayed, poked, and prodded me, and then they did it again for good measure.

They lived in a world where mental illness was equated with weakness, and shame, and as a result, I suffered until I was in my thirties.*

I had a terrible education. I attended a school for emotionally disturbed teachers.