A taper plan for medication: you flush the pill you would take each night – tell them that you confused the toilet with your mouth. They might believe you for once! When they increase or decrease your dose, adjust the process accordingly. In this way they slowly learn that you were simply doing arithmetic all along.

Really, I should be grateful. They are changing my diagnosis from the social death sentences of schizophrenia spectrum disorders to bipolar disorder. Oh, gracious bestowers of diagnoses, I am forever in your gratitude. They want to claim that the medication is helping me – perhaps being kept in the psych ward for two weeks is what harmed me? A fellow inmate at the 8th floor of the Notre Dame was confused and would enter my room at night repeatedly, one time putting his hands around my neck as if to choke me. I asked them if they could lock my door from the outside (as the doors naturally only lock from the outside) so that I could sleep in peace. They said that they could not. Another inmate of mine appeared to have strict religious dietary restrictions. He was disgusted by his meal of tofu and couscous and just wanted a sandwich instead. I went to ask for him, recounting that he did not eat anything at lunch. They berated me for asking for him and told me that “there are rules here”. Dr. G, you thought it was a metaphor when I called your kingdom Hell. Your idiocy was that you thought I couldn’t possibly be myself when I said, “I don’t know who you are, but I fucking hate you.” That someone with a modest success in life would have learned to suppress the urges to say such things in your hallowed halls. The judge ruled that I am not a clear physical danger to myself or others but that I might pose an “economic danger” to myself. I just wanted to sleep outside under the stars, you bitch. They took my vitals when they moved me to the 7th floor and accused me of having a “somewhat high pulse”.

The ridiculous things I had to learn to make my way out of that place. I had to learn to meditate. To breathe deeply to remind myself that I still had a body. To sleep with my heart on the floor to remind myself that there is still an Earth. To refrain from screaming, from banging at the windows. So exciting it was when others had their meltdowns, their crises. Oh, how they suffered for your sins, for my catharsis. Now I am adrift having to justify my desires – “catharsis”, “boredom”, “injustice”. Oh, how badly I want to see the blood of the jailers, the blood of the sinners, mixing with shattered glass on the ground as their kingdom burns and the people laugh manically.

Is this literature or confession? Did I confuse the toilet for my mouth again? All I’ve learnt is that when you’ve been screaming and laughing so much that it hurts, the only thing that will make you feel better is to scream and laugh even harder.

The folly of Christians – to think that one man could die just once for all the world’s sins. We who have already been crucified for the world’s sins not once, but over and over again, without the comfort of God on our side. We who are so tired of screaming yet love it so much. We will never solemnly wear our crown of thorns. Tears and blood stream down our faces as we keep laughing and screaming.