[Editor’s Note: I have lost and recovered this Journal many times over the years. It is a mystery to me how I can be so absolutely incompetent at keeping track of my files. I assume inattention is enough to explain it, as well as a lack of discipline about establishing a comprehensive plan for backups. I wrote and re-wrote the Tale of My Arrest on at least three occasions, but have only chosen to include the first, reasoning that it was closest to an accurate recollection. The below entry was written just after my latest re-telling, and describes how I was first diagnosed with a disorder.]
After my Trial, my Paranoia went into full overload. The Iraq invasion was underway, 9/11 was close on everyone’s memory… and I was reading newsletters about the Bush Administration’s continuing encroachment on civil liberties with the PATRIOT Act and the NSA’s warrantless wiretapping program. I became convinced that, because of the contents of my bookbag on That Fateful Night [Particularly the Unabomber’s Manifesto. — Ed.], I had been referred to some kind of “Domestic Terrorist Watch List” and that the Government was constantly spying on everything I did, and furthermore, was looking for any excuse to throw me back into the terrifying jail cell I had just recently escaped.
My Paranoia came to a head one night while I was staying with my Brother and Roma at her place. We started playing a Word Association game, where you say a word or phrase, and the other people around you say the first thing that comes to their mind, without thinking about it too hard. While we were playing that game, they started playing the exact same game on an episode of Seinfeld we were watching! That freaked me out.
Later, they went upstairs, while I sat downstairs and tuned in to FOX News. I figured if I wanted to have early access to the Government’s Mouthpiece, I should watch FOX. Anyway, various gestures and facial expressions of the newscasters onscreen convinced me that they could see me through the television screen, and I blew a gasket. I distinctly remember one of the newscasters rolling her eyes at me, and glancing upstairs where my brother and Roma were making having rather noisy lovemaking, judging by the various thumps and utterances.
So I got up in front of the Television Screen and tried to affect what was going on there. It was about dawn at this time. Some kids that Roma’s sister was babysitting came over, and they saw me. I moved my hand in front of the Newscasters’ eyes, and they appeared to dodge it. I gestured downward in front of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s face (he was then Governor of California) and he ducked his head. Not only that, they had a commercial for Conan O’Brien later featuring the same clip, with an anchor bonking Arnold on the head! They could see me, it had to be!
I developed a quick Hypothesis that any Television made after the date of 1984 (the year of Orwell’s archetypal book) had two-way cameras in it that reported to the Government. My Brother and Roma came downstairs, and I told them about what I had discovered. They turned to the kids and asked them if the television was responding to me. And they said yes! I was vindicated! “Aw, kids will believe anything,” my brother said, and ignored me. I rushed upstairs.
I became convinced that the reason that FOX News and the Government was spying on me was that I was actually the Antichrist, and they were trying to prevent the Apocalypse. I informed my brother of this. I tried looking up my name in the Jewish Alphabet, to count the number of my name and ensure him that it added up to 666. But I got confused, because there is no Israeli letter for J, it’s just an accent mark.
So I grabbed a nearby pair of scissors and closed them around my first two fingers. I shouted that if they didn’t accept I was the Antichrist, I would cut them off. My brother and Roma attempted to argue for a brief moment that they were the Antichrist and not me, but eventually they wrested the scissors from my hands and got me calmed down.
I don’t remember the details, but it was mutually agreed upon that I should go into a Psychiatric Ward of some kind. I think my Brother and Roma were concerned about my safety, and I was trying to seek refuge from the ever-present Government That Was Out To Get Me. I thought that if I willingly marked myself as mentally ill, they would view me as less of a threat, or something like that. So I was practically begging to go in.
My Brother and Roma drove me to the University of Kentucky’s Emergency Room and I explained my symptoms and that I needed to be committed. They brought me to the back where some heavyset police officers watched over me. I thought I heard them say something like “Termination? It’s not been approved yet.” But that may have just been my Paranoid mind, over-reacting.
The doctors asked me to give a urine sample, and when I started to piss in the little cup, the cop behind me said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I showed him the sample cup and he waved to me and said, “Oh, okay, go ahead.”
They briefly interviewed me and asked me about my symptoms. I explained that I felt that televisions were two way screens which were watching me personally. They asked me if I ever saw anything that wasn’t there. I said I sometimes saw a Coriolis of light in the center of my vision. [In retrospect I believe this may have been a symptom of high blood pressure. -Ed.] They diagnosed me with “Psychotic Disorder NOS (Not Otherwise Specified),” gave me a heavy dose of Haldol, and sent me on my way.
I slept for like 24 hours straight.
When I awoke, I was in a room with a drug addict. He was a light sleeper, and I heard him complaining on multiple occasions when the Nurses would come in to check our vitals at very early times in the morning. The University only allows you 10 cigarettes a day when you’re in the Mental Ward, so we often took smoke breaks together and bullshitted. I remember one time, he claimed he had “Ultra” cigarettes which I considered a reference to the “MK Ultra” program, something I had thought myself to be a victim of before. However, when I confronted him about it, he covered the label of his cigarette and dismissed my inquiry.
I remember while I was in there, I sat in the cafeteria or common room watching television. The news announced that the Bush Administration was going to pursue Colin Powell’s advice for the Iraq War and send more troops in, as opposed to the “light footprint” strategy of Donald Rumsfeld. I somehow thought that this had something to do with me, that because I had surrendered myself to the rightful authorities, the threats against America weren’t as great as George W. Bush perceived them to be.
I only stayed in the Mental Ward for about three days, and I was a source of great consternation to the volunteer workers there, as I did not participate in any of the arts and crafts activities they want you to get involved with. I begged to be released, and as I was not a threat to myself or others according to their judgment, they had no choice but to do so. They prescribed me Zyprexa and Depakote before I left.
I eventually ended up moving back to [REDACTED] with my Granny Bernadette, a time I refer to as The Lost Year. But I’ll detail that in a future entry.
[Editor’s Postscript: I now tend to think my breakdown was instigated at this particular moment by the extreme duress I was exposed to that night, with my Brother consummating his relationship in a love triangle I felt powerless to escape.]