So here's Mike, this pompous and suddenly self-important psych student, thinking he can analyze me in order for me to understand my "barriers."

"Steve, I'm really happy that now we'll have a chance to get to know each other better."

I simply smiled in the sterile conference room, remaining silent. But inside I was screaming with laughter.

Mike, give it a rest. You know, I'm really happy you've been able to find psychotherapy as something for a career with your pathetic life, but please don't attempt to make more than what it is. In a matter of weeks I'll be a free man and will be able to do whatever I want.

God, look at him. Blah, blah, blah. There is something attractive about Mike, but the aimlessness in his life that made him rather sexy is now filled with a visible urge and motivation. He's becoming like the rest of America---consumed with the need to get ahead and to be better, stronger, and faster than his fellow neighbor.

"...you know what I mean?" asked Mike.

I simply nodded, realizing the power in remaining silent, but I had no idea what he just said. But that doesn't stop him, he continues pontificating about Greystone and the need of mental health centers to aid people like me.

Doesn't he get it? Doesn't he understand that my entire life people have been saying, "people like YOU." I've always known I was different, seeing the world and its falling crap like a polluted snow dome, and here's this nimrod attempting to crack my soul by telling me I'm different and that I'm loved and that I'm a problem---all in the same breath.

"You're not listening to me." Said Mike.

I paused, suddenly taken aback. "Yes, I am."

"Then what'd I just say?"

"Look Mike, I don't need your psychobabble games."

Awkward silence suddenly filled the room and I realized I had let my cockiness once again consume me.

Mike leaned across the table. "I work here, and I'm trying to make an effort to help you Steve because they're watching you like vultures along an empty highway. So I suggest you start listening to me and how I can help you or you're going to be buried. The choice is yours."

I remained silent.

He continued. "You told that kid to kill himself, didn't you? There's no proof, but they're looking. I checked on your file--- one slip up and you're committed, permanently transferred to a State facility and good-bye Steve. Don't be so naïve to think you're pulling something. Everyone knows your magician tricks."

And with that, Mike took his file and left the room. Suddenly the realization that these institutional walls could be my permanent residence was a reality.