It's not that bad. People here are mostly normal. Most, you couldn't tell by looking they were psychos. But even here I don't fit in. They have normal jobs, and kids. I'm the oddball.
Look at the psychiatrists. I was supposed to be one. When I was in college it was my plan. I chose psychiatry because the brain is the greatest of the organs, and because psychiatrists work the fewest hours of any specialty. The real reason, which I had no inkling of, was that I was mental, and trying to cure myself. My whole career was decided by unconscious forces. I really do belong here.
I always knew I felt bad, but I thought, if I would just try harder, if I would just learn how to be fun and popular, if I could just get in shape, if I could just get accepted to medical school, then I could be a winner. People would love me, and I would be a kind and generous king.
I still could go back to school. Maybe the doctor will give me a recommendation. What am I talking about? My life is ruined. I'm as good as dead. Worse than dead. I have the mark of shame. Wacko looks terrible on a resume.
They treat us good here. I'm grateful they're trying to help me. We have a nice clean environment. There's a rack of clean gowns and towels we can help ourselves to. When our clothes get dirty we just throw them in the hamper. The food is great. We can have whatever we want. At night there is a refrigerator full of milk, and ice cream cups, and soda. I make myself ten ice cream sodas a night.
After dinner, 4pm, they dim the lights, because it's time to wind down for bed. I explore, my brown booty socks silent and slippery on the polished floor. Look at the cool instruments. Try to figure out what they do. Watch the nurses. I like the quiet time. Sit on my bed. Mostly nothing happening. Every so often a nurse will walk by, or a patient. A girl with short curly hair, in gown and booties, four inches taller than me, comes over to me. She smiles. I smile. She stands close. She pulls closed my curtain door. We are alone. We kiss. Touch her large breast. A nurse is coming; she leaves.
Nothing like this ever happened before. If I knew the mental hospital was the magic secret to getting women, I would have lost my mind years ago.
The next morning in art group draw a picture of a cupid for my girlfriend. Stand up. I feel something. Walk around. Have to walk. The Querasil is making me antsy. Can't take this. I want to crawl out of my skin. The nurse has me take a warm bath to calm down, which helps. Ants in the pants. Ants in the pants. Pace the hall and read the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual-3 all day; two productive things at once.