3.

When I was in my first psychological hospital—I was just 17—I remember very clearly my first physical takedown. But let me start from the beginning. You see, even when psychotic in the months before I was admitted, I had found immense pleasure in music. It was, really, my only pleasure. I would walk home from the place where the school bus dropped me off, alone, wondering what to do when I got home. I won’t get into the psychotic delusion I was under until later. But I would say to myself on my way home, "What to do when I get home? Take a piss? And then what? Listen to music. Yes, listen to music." And so I would go home, take a piss, and then listen to music. It was all I wanted, besides the bong hits I took from a bong that was in the form of a ceramic skull.

Anyway, that was one of the things I missed in the hospital, my music. One day, I looked into the nurse’s station, and saw that my father had dropped off my stereo. I was very excited. I immediately asked for it. I was refused. I demanded it. I was still refused. I was still psychotic. I had refused any medication, and my therapist had decided not to force it on me. I was told they were afraid I would break my records and use them to slash my wrists. The idea hadn’t even occurred to me. They had figured out my plans before I myself had formed them.

To make a long story short, when I was told to walk into the dayroom, sit down, and stop asking for my stereo, it was my turn to refuse. The next thing I knew hands were grabbing at me from all sides, I was on the floor and someone was lying across my back, my limbs were being folded up so they could lift me onto the gurney. Soon, I found myself locked in seclusion. It didn’t have padded walls, like in the movies. It had cinderblock walls. I don’t know why it didn’t have padded walls. If someone banged his head into the walls until he died, whose fault would it be? It wouldn’t be theirs—they didn’t tell him to do it. I didn’t bang my head into the walls. I screamed. I went on screaming for hours, until I was exhausted.

At dinnertime, someone came to the door, and told me to sit in the corner, with my face to the wall. I did so. He came in and carefully set a tray of food by the door. There was another door right next to him—the bathroom door. There was a bathroom and shower in this seclusion room—of course we weren’t animals. I said to him, as he set down the tray, "I haven’t been physically out of control at all." I had merely refused direction, after all, and had only reacted after they had grabbed a hold of me. Somehow I expected him to react to my statement; I expected that he would give their side of the controversy, that he would explain to me what, in their eyes, I had done wrong. I more than expected this—I was certain it would come. It seemed perfectly natural that such a discussion would take place. Most people, after all, when given a statement they blatantly disagree with, will engage the person in discussion. It is only natural.

But he only said to me, "Okay," backed out the door, and locked it shut.