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To Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal's previous piece
It is not that I do not follow directions. I am not a child and their directions are not something I agree with. I'd like to stay in bed into well past noon. I am not an early riser, unless I have to get up early and wait for concert tickets outside Tower Records. They say I laugh inappropriately. But this laughter is not from some joke some unseen person has whispered in my ear. It is nervous laughter. Sometimes I tend to be sarcastic and I like to poke fun at the nurses, interns, and shrinks. If they want to play with my head, I'll play with theirs.
It is a no-win-situation for me. I have to stay here and everybody that's involved with me gets to go home. Even the recreation therapist gets to go home and she seems like a real crazy person to me. That weird smile and child's voice of hers, it really gives me the creeps. I hate talking in front of discussion groups. I hate people knowing my business. This isn't therapy for me. It is torture and an invasion of privacy. They say I lack insight into my mental illness. If by denying that I am mentally ill means I have no insight, then they're right. I'm as normal as can be.
It is true. I did threaten some people on the street. But they were on drugs or something and they called me a moron. So I went up to the biggest one of those bastards ready to tear a chunk out of his ass, but the sissy ran away like a deer. I ran out of breath chasing him and this is when the pigs got involved. One guy asked me what I thought I was doing. I told him I was chasing that big guy that called me a moron. The cops didn't want to hear any of it. I was so out of breath that I can understand how they said I appeared incoherent. But I'm no track star and I'm in pretty bad shape.
It is not true that I resisted. I simply told them that I did nothing wrong and that I wanted to go home. One of the cops told me he was going to bust me because I would not tell him where I lived. Look, I'm a street person. Sometimes I'll go to the mission. Sometimes I'll just sleep under a freeway overpass. This does not mean I am psychotic. I simply stand up for myself when someone messes with me. My clothes are shabby. I don't smell too good and I haven't shaved in months. The pigs did not see a human being when they looked at me. They saw a menace. Some dumb ass calls me names and he is protected. I pleaded with them, but they hauled me in.
It is difficult being here. I'm on a schedule. I have to get up at the butt-crack of dawn if I want to have breakfast. If I'm not up by ten, I miss the smoke break. If I'm up after eleven, there are twenty staff members coming in and out of my room trying to make me wake up. It's a bummer. The only person I like is the janitor. She's kind of cool and is pretty quiet when she comes into the room to clean up. She's a damned magician with the mop. Let me tell you. The doctor, with his trippy accent, I don't understand half the things he is saying. I just tell him to shut the hell up and give me my pills.
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