SECTIONED: One Week Diary of a Mental Patient

DAY 3
Couple of good visits this week. You find out who your friends are when you are locked up. The weekends are much quieter on the ward, and Sunday, although being the longest day, is the best day for food (fried brunch and roast dinner). Did my laundry early and hung it in the window to dry before someone bunged it in the drier without asking. Also mastered my first cardio session in two weeks. Tried to have a smoke afterwards but couldn't finish the disgusting thing. No more rollies. Fitness and a bigger lung capacity is much more important. Watched a Louis Theroux documentary about mental health. He always does a good program, he does. It's as if everyone is blind when it comes to being bonkers, however. All I ever hear are the words 'illness' and 'medication'. They're both bullshit. I know the dark dirty truth and that truth is the stonewall reality of mind control weapons being used on the non-consenting public. Whenever I try to enlighten anyone, it comes across as part of my condition. As a delusion. My GP can't even bring himself to say the word 'voices'. He calls them 'thoughts'. They're not f**king thoughts, doc, they are proper audible microwave signals being sent from a third party via clandestine electromagnetic instruments. That's what they bloody well are, mate. All those fancy qualifications and he still doesn't have a jar of glue. Then again, why should he? Only the victims do. The level of ignorance is frightening. I wonder how many more years will pass before the perpetrators’ secrets are exposed. I predict that movies will be made about them in the future. It's an absolutely fascinating science, shame it's used for evildoing. It's just a matter of time. The evidence is all over the net. I was telling a young man about people getting micro-chipped (this chipping practice will be standard procedure for all pet dogs in 2016). He forthright told me that I was talking rubbish, he didn't believe in it. I wouldn't have believed it myself once upon a time. But there are pictures and testimonies online. God help me if I never had the internet for extensive research. Testimonies are all but one strong piece of the evidence puzzle. This here is part of my testimony. Good news: I've packed in the smokes. Good news: I'm writing again.

SECTIONED: One Week Diary of a Mental Patient

DAY 2

I've decided to start this daily journal of my stay with a view to sharing it online upon discharge. I don't care if everyone thinks I'm nuts, because I know I'm not. It can't be any worse than chain-smoking again, anyway. I'm puffing away on the toilet. If only my dad could see me now, I think, pants down, cig in hand. Ah well. I'll soon be back out on the treadmill again, Catching Hassan. Safir Hassan is an Olympic distance runner whose style I admire greatly. When I train, I pretend I'm catching up to her on the finishing back straight. Along with some motivating iPod music, it really gives me wings. Every smoke I have in here will make it harder when I get back to it, but hey, I could be smoking worse things, like crack or smack. Or smack and crack, lol. Christian Stormer escaped today, and Dave 'Angry Man' Daggers had custard creams on toast for supper. I was seeing, but I wasn't believing. Stormer used to bounce around like a man possessed, in and out of rooms like a duck's arse, spouting random incomprehensible nuggets of conspiracy theories to anybody who would listen. Daggers Dave just stares at people as if he wants to throttle them with a length of flex. He has a keyboard in his room and a portrait of Lucifer on his wall. His mum explained during a visit that his organic psychosis is down to four strokes, that his schizophrenia is a misdiagnosis. He's nice when he wants to be but nastily aggressive at other times. Ash is a new patient. He had a naked fit in his room. On one-to-one observations by staff. I left  the snooker cue my dad left me alone in the pool room earlier, only to return and find Ash repeatedly banging it against the table. It's bashed to buggery but fortunately not bent beyond repair. I stopped fuming after five or ten minutes because it wasn't personal. The poor sod doesn't know what he's doing; Satan is using him via voices if you ask me. Matt the staff member cheered me up because he said it adds character. Matt was pissed off all day because he bought an Audi estate with an oil leak. He showed me the evidence on the car park. I expected a big puddle the way he was rabbiting on about it, but it turned out to be a single drop. I'd swap a wee dot of oil for voices in the head any day of the week, I thought to myself. Went the gym again today, threw some weights around. Dreading my next cardio sesh. Should get some escorted leave next week. Go and get a few bills sorted out. Minimal voices again today. Less than a dozen. That's nothing. Not compared to the running commentary. Long may it continue, but somehow I don't think it will.

SECTIONED: One Week Diary of a Mental Patient

DAY 1

I'm sat in a mental hospital feeling stressed. Minimal voices for nearly a week now, so starting to feel like a normal human being again. On a good day, I hear less than a dozen audible suicide command prompts, in and around my head. I hear them as clearly as I would hear your voice. There's a big difference between hearing voices and feeling depressed, you know. Feeling down in the dumps in a general sense is what I would call depression, reflected from gambling debts, divorce, redundancy, car repairs and the like, but hearing voices is oppression. They obliterate your natural thought processes. It's like having an evil Siasmese twin who can read your mind and delights in taking pleasure from tormenting your soul from the inside out.

Being surrounded by genuinely mentally-ill people in a controlled environment when one is nothing but the unwitting victim of psychotronics is in itself a kind of mild torture. I've been harassed, hounded and humiliated from pillar to post. I've been kept awake and running scared on the streets for nights on end, countless times. In the height of my induced delirium, I escaped from one hospital and broke into another. I've been put through unimaginable mental suffering. And for what? Why? What was my crime? Oh yeah, I forgot — being sat at home. All I ever did was sit at home.