Patricia Warring introduced herself to me upon my arrival at Greystone, Institute for Mental Health. She was a pleasant enough woman, taking me to my room. It was simple, with a single bed, no blunt or sharp objects, and surprisingly, windows that opened to barred windows that were part of the building architecture, seemingly making the gray building seem less like a prison and more like a hospital.

But there was no denying the fact that it felt like a prison. Four weeks of a controlled environment filled with workshops, counseling, and case management, as I would learn to "recover" from my "abusive self." I knew that I had to be on my best behavior because the DA was waiting for my first slip, which would result in an indefinite stay in a mental hospital and my prognosis of being clinically insane. I also knew that once my insurance ran out, I'd be transferred to a State facility, which would be nothing like this pseudo country club institution--- a Hilton hotel with bars.

As I sat in my room, looking out the window at the expansive grounds, I could see a group of people meandering across the grass. They didn't look crazy; they just looked like they were going for a walk. And then someone started doing somersaults across the lawn. Did that make him crazy? I love to do somersaults but that didn't mean I was nuts. Or am I?

An orderly came and got me, bringing me into the cafeteria. Suddenly I was back in high school, seeing long tables and chairs strung out before me with groups of people eating and talking. Several people ate by themselves, one guy seemingly having a conversation with empty space. As I looked closer, I could tell he was obviously mentally retarded.

I got my tray of food and joined him.

"How's it going?" I asked.

He looked at me and then looked back down at his food.

"Who were you talking to?"

"My...mom."

"Your mother?"

He smiled at me, his face filled with innocence, an idiotic smile staring me down. "She loves me."

"Really. Where is she?"

He leaned in closer to me. "She left so you could sit down. She's very polite."

I suddenly turned my head to the dead air, pretending someone was there. "You what? That's not very nice." I turned back to the man, looking straight at him. "She says you're a very...good son."

"What did she really say?"

I paused for dramatic effect. "You're sure you want me to tell you?"

"Yes!"

I leaned into him, staring him squarely in the face. "That you are a sick man and you should kill yourself."

"No, she didn't. She would never say that."

I turned back to the dead air, pretending to have a conversation.

"What?!" His eyes were huge, suddenly filled with a terrible curiosity.

I simply nodded and said, "I'm sorry, but she says you're no longer special to her--- that you're just a special kind of freak." I leaned in closer. "Death is only another doorway. She wants you to cross it."

Later that evening at dinner, I didn't see the retard anywhere in the cafeteria, so I started asking around and was told he was in the infirmary after attempting to hang himself with a threaded bed sheet.

Patricia Warring stood in the cafeteria doorway with several orderlies, their eyes staring me down.