This nonfiction article is a description of the sequence of experiences that I witnessed at a psychiatric Hospital of the Los Angeles metropolitan area in 1995. This account was written around 12 years ago as a chapter for an unpublished autobiography. The photographs mentioned are presented in an article presenting five photographs with paranormal aspects: one photo shows transparent-looking faces in a window and another is an anomalous photo with what appears to be an image suggestive of a movie camera on a tripod.
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On Friday, August 25 after being transported by ambulance, I was admitted at 1:30 a.m. to Community Psychiatric Center Alhambra Hospital and what I would later find out to be the intensive care unit. It was explained to me that I would be signing myself into the hospital and could leave whenever I wanted with the ability to specify that no drugs would be administered to me during my stay. I made it clear that this was a very important condition because it was my belief that one of the reasons for my lifelong good health was due to having avoided drugs. Later I would find out that everything the hospital staff had said to me were lies but at this time during my visit I had no cause for concern. My attending physician was a male psychiatrist and the "Medical Consultation/History and Physical" was dictated by an M.D. after his interview with me. I remember at some point the M.D. thanked someone for having asked him to do the intake.
The night Nurse when I arrived was a long-haired man whose first name was Wolfgang. Although I spoke about myself to the hospital staff members at the appropriate times, I minimally conversed with other patients (as indicated in this account) and I heard only trifling banter among the other patients beyond what is mentioned in this report. As my new book project seemed to be the reason for the intervention of my being brought to the hospital after expressing some momentary fearful thoughts to my brother that I quickly realized weren't reasonable, I signed my recently accepted author's pseudonym 'Mark Russell Bell' on the admission forms given to me. Several months would pass before I would read the file of my treatment and the "History of the Present Illness" would specify the following.
The night Nurse when I arrived was a long-haired man whose first name was Wolfgang. Although I spoke about myself to the hospital staff members at the appropriate times, I minimally conversed with other patients (as indicated in this account) and I heard only trifling banter among the other patients beyond what is mentioned in this report. As my new book project seemed to be the reason for the intervention of my being brought to the hospital after expressing some momentary fearful thoughts to my brother that I quickly realized weren't reasonable, I signed my recently accepted author's pseudonym 'Mark Russell Bell' on the admission forms given to me. Several months would pass before I would read the file of my treatment and the "History of the Present Illness" would specify the following.
The patient is a 39-year-old male admitted for his first hospitalization for psychosis. The patient has been having "bizarre" behavior, visual hallucinations, and auditory hallucinations.
The patient has been sleeping well in the last few days. He has been writing a book on Poltergeist and has been staying with a family and he then experienced the above behavioral changes.
He is admitted here for further psychiatric evaluation and treatment. He denies a prior history of psychiatric hospitalization or treatment. He denies a history of alcohol or other recreational drug abuse.
The "Impression" stated is:
My reaction to this is that other then the momentary upset mentioned in the preceding article, I was never depressed; if anything, my condition was one of extreme excitement and happiness. I had decided to leave behind my movie publicity writing career and use savings to finance a period of writing a case study documenting my unexpected paranormal initiation that resulted with a spiritual awakening.
"Progress Notes" made upon my admission to the hospital added "patient has (been) isolating himself and has loose association."
The patient is a 39-year-old male admitted to CPC Alhambra Hospital for major depression with psychosis.
The patient is medically stable at this time for further psychiatric evaluation and treatment.
My reaction to this is that other then the momentary upset mentioned in the preceding article, I was never depressed; if anything, my condition was one of extreme excitement and happiness. I had decided to leave behind my movie publicity writing career and use savings to finance a period of writing a case study documenting my unexpected paranormal initiation that resulted with a spiritual awakening.
"Progress Notes" made upon my admission to the hospital added "patient has (been) isolating himself and has loose association."
Psychosis, like insanity, is a term that generally conveys a 'great folly' or 'extreme senselessness.' In my case, I expected it would be extremely difficult to explain my recent experiences to others. In my circumstances, some of my estimations I knew would seem beyond bizarre to just about everyone. One such example of this concerned a possible explanation for the unusual warmth that seemed to me to be constantly surrounding me even throughout the night. I couldn't forget the photo of the transparent beings seen in the window of the Centrahoma house. The clearest face in the window resembled the faint visage and eyes seen in the dark background of another photograph. (article) Whatever they were — 'aliens' being one possible colloquialism; 'they' were evidently involved in a plan of staggering scope. I felt that being in a mental facility, 'Michael' (my nickname for my ever-present unseen Guide) wanted me to be truthful while also making a memorable introduction—keep in mind that I knew this occasion would become become part of the sequence of events to be related in my planned case study book—so I decided to articulate one potential scenario upon being questioned by staff. In the lobby of CPC Alhambra, I said: "I'm the reincarnation of Jesus Christ and aliens are filming a documentary of my life. It's a comedy."
Upon hearing this, the rather brusque and deadpan nurse whom I would soon nickname 'Nurse Ratched' commented, "Well that's a sign of the times."
It was explained that the few things I'd brought with me, including my wallet and some toiletries, would be kept behind the counter, which provided the first clue that unfortunate assumptions were being made about me. That was the daily procedure at such a place as this. I certainly knew that nobody had to worry about me trying to take my own life with a toothbrush. A nurse gave me a blanket and I draped it around myself as I waited to be escorted to a room. When a nurse attempted to take a reading of my blood pressure, the equipment malfunctioned and this happened repeatedly during my stay. There had been continuous malfunctions of technology during my interactions with other people recently as mentioned in the preceding article. In CPC Alhambra, as nurses worked with thermometers and blood pressure monitoring equipment, there were many quizzical looks. I remember during my first doctor consultation I indicated that I didn't want a blood sample taken. I shuddered and declared half-kiddingly, "No sharp objects breaking the skin."
When I reached my new room, I found that there were no hangers in the closet and it appalled me to find out that I would be sharing the room with two other men who were both sleeping. I wondered if I would even be able to go to sleep since I was accustomed to being in my own room but then I reminded myself that 'Michael' would be helping me so I figured there was no need for concern.
I wasn't aware at the time that hospital staff were interacting with me under the assumption that I was having visual and auditory hallucinations — something I'd never indicated to anybody.
The two men sharing my room were both Caucasian. The bed a few feet across from mine belonged to a mild-mannered unassuming young man. The other man seemed to be in good physical condition and was quiet and aloof. During my stay, neither of them would ever show any form of unusual mental distress that I could discern during my fleeting encounters with them.
That first day as a patient, I decided to forego showering in the shared bathroom or seeing about a shave for the time being because I planned on soon leaving the facility. One of the administrators advised me that it was important for me to participate in group activities. The only alternative to this was sleeping all day as I hadn't brought anything to read with me and watching TV seemed an inane alternative. When I spoke to my brother on the telephone, I asked him to bring me something to read and something else to wear.
Things got off to a rousing start during the communal breakfast when a local news broadcast was airing on the large room's television and the traffic reporter shown in a helicopter began making motions with her arms and hands while giving vocalizations — something obviously inspired by the movie "Wayne's World" where Wayne and Garth made a similar maneuver as a dissolve (signifying cutting to a later time in the narrative). The reporter apparently was experiencing some kind of unexpected difficulty and when the news anchors returned to the telecast, they displayed startled expressions much like my own. (I'd worked as a publicity writer for the two "Wayne's World" Paramount movies.)
The other patients with whom I spoke included an older, complaisant man whose first words to me were, "Hello, remember me?" He was somewhat stern yet he was friendly, usually expressing himself with succinct and direct statements. There did seem something familiar about him. I wondered if he'd been a possible acquaintance from my first job as a movie theater concession clerk/ticket taker/usher in Pasadena where I often fleetingly encountered a large number of people. Then I thought, 'No, he's just a mental case.' One middle-aged woman in a wheelchair seemed interested in me and communicated in short, breathless sentences in a friendly manner but at other times exhibited periods of such severe spasticity that she was unable to speak or show any signs of cognizance whatsoever.
I don't remember what smalltalk was briefly shared with the other patients. Being in a mental hospital made it seem impractical to attempt to relate my complicated impressions of my recent activities involving a research expedition to investigate a 'talking poltergeist' haunting. I remember someone encouraged me to express my experience to others as having found myself in a situation that had begun to make me feel a little overwhelmed, which seemed an appropriate way of phrasing it.
During the morning physical therapy session where patients involved themselves with stretching and small limbering-up exercises while seated in a circle around the therapist, an interruption occurred when one of the female staff members appeared in the doorway and said, "Excuse me but I see that we have a celebrity with us today who you might know from his television series 'The Rockford Files' — James Garner." She meant the friendly middle-aged man who appeared nothing like James Garner (a star of "Fire in the Sky," another Paramount movie I'd helped publicize). The staff member seemed sincere upon making this identification. I thought to myself that she was either crazier than the patients or this was this some manner of ludicrous analysis situation to see how group members would respond. I said nothing.
It soon became clear that there was little else for me to do other than sit and conjecture about what to expect would happen next. I discovered that I wasn't allowed to leave the building except to venture outside to the patio during short scheduled breaks. During these intervals, some of the others would smoke cigarettes and the smoke would make me nauseous. It was now beginning to be obvious that what I'd been told about signing myself out whenever I wanted was just something told to a deranged person to gain cooperation. Later, I would discover stelazine and cogentin had been prescribed upon my admittance despite the assurances that no drugs would be administered. Apparently, this had been done on an emergency basis — theirs not mine. As I began being aware of an uncomfortable medicinal feeling, I realized that drugs were being administered through the water or food provided me. My basic perceptions, thoughts and understanding of my situation weren't affected by the medication — I just felt somewhat nauseated and woozy.
It was a relief when a diversion was offered for me to occupy my time for a little while as there commenced a group crafts session where I and a few other patients made bracelets with beads in the large room called the day room. I wondered if we were being observed by unseen staff members intent upon analyzing my actions and comments because it looked as if there was a small security monitoring device mounted just above the television set. I decided to utilize a bead with a heart symbol in my design while avoiding any chipped beads. I observed, "It would be interesting to make a bracelet using only the broken beads."
Staff and patients occasionally referred to "the other side" of the hospital such as a patient being transferred from this wing to the one on "the other side" — it was a section I would never be given the opportunity to visit. When the psychiatrist interviewed me, I was intrigued to find that he was tape recording the session, as had the M.D. who first consulted with me. I tried to be honest. I told him some of my impressions although it was difficult to put some of my perceptions into words. The reason for the Christ Force manifesting in my life in symbolic and metaphoric ways remained an area of conjecture. I still was intent expressing myself with a simultaneously philosophical and droll sensibility, commenting: "For something like this to happen, a thousand different variables have to come into place. It only happens twice in history." I assured him that I had no intention of harming myself or anyone else, for that matter. I was interested in hearing his comments; however, he just looked shocked and didn't say anything much beyond explaining that I would be at the hospital for an involuntary "72-hour hold."
In the day room, patients could watch television, read from a few dusty Reader's Digest condensed book anthologies, or play board games. One odd circumstance was that there were black and white two-sided, raggedly cut out and glued together photocopies of dollar bills that could be found scattered around the premises — the pathetic collection of one of the patients. Upon my observing the small security camera in this 'day room,' I wondered if video was being recorded and began considering if there could be monitoring devices in other rooms, presumably behind mirrors.
I only recollect some characteristics of a few of the other patients who were at CPC Alhambra while I was there that first day. One patient was an elderly ex-boxer named George. Due to brain damage, he could no longer walk on his own. Some of the staff occasionally spoke about him as if he was famous; however, I've never been interested in sports. One kindly black nurse kiddingly taunted George with lines from an old nursery rhyme — "Georgie Porgie pudding pie kissed the girls and made them cry." (Years later I heard the manifesting guide 'Mickey' on one occasion use the jovial nickname 'George-porge' in a Leslie Flint direct voice mediumship seance audio recording. [article])
A spontaneous conversation concerning heartbeat irregularities motivated one bystander to ask me if I remembered the movie scene where the demon fibrillated the heart of the character played by Louise Fletcher in "Exorcist II — The Heretic." I'd seen the movie during the period when I was a cinema major at USC. This was the first disturbing impromptu comment I'd heard and it was strange enough that now I was beginning to worry about this whole set-up.
In looking for something to occupy myself, I sat in the lobby, a room that I expected was probably monitored, and glanced at the meager selection of magazines. The young man who was a roommate was flipping through a magazine with another patient and I was surprised to learn that he was gay as he pointed out which men in the ads he thought were cute. The two left after a while and I found myself alone in the lobby. Suddenly I heard a voice that seemed to be coming from a hidden transmitter somewhere in the ceiling: "Mark, why are you here?"
I almost laughed to find myself in such a predicament and wondered if hospital staff thought that I was schizophrenic. It didn't seem right to answer aloud so I picked up a magazine from the table next to me and held it up. The caption on the cover was "The Grateful Dead" — a story inspired by the recent death of Jerry Garcia. I also noticed and turned over a magazine to reveal that a back cover page advertisement had been printed upside down in an apparent printing error. Then I left the room, pondering the type of ethics that allowed doctors to interact with patients in such a surreptitious manner.
At lunch, I was beginning to feel depressed about having my liberty suddenly in question. I was surprised when my wheelchair-bound friend with little control of her body suddenly was able to very dexterously reach behind herself to pat me on the shoulder to console me. This was a more startling change in demeanor than mere words can convey. I noticed that this happened in plain view of the security monitoring device.
At an afternoon group therapy session, a dignified older man with a gentle demeanor was the group supervisor. He read to us about walking a tightrope and said this was now expected of each of us. What this boiled down to was each of us in turn explaining our reason for being in the hospital. When it was my turn, I admitted that what had gotten me into trouble was saying that I was the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. I said it humorously with a few additional carefully chosen words about the apparent absurdity of making such an appraisal when this is the last thing anybody wanted to hear. I knew that their perception of reality was similar to the way mine had been previously. It seemed to me that my predicament would be more correctly designated as reality having had a break with me and it evidently wasn't ever going to revert back to how it was before.
My impression was that each person constructs their own belief system based upon their experiences and what teachings they've accepted. I wondered if anyone else had ever undergone such a formal introduction as my Angel had presented to me through a carefully selected succession of occurrences that I could only equate with being a 'paranormal initiation.'
It made me very uneasy at dinnertime as I attempted to avoid any consumables that possibly were medicated. I mentioned this to my fellow patients and the older male patient said, "You don't have to eat." I could only speculate about motivated him to say that. Other patients also offered suggestions to me. When I found myself encouraged to drink milk, I estimated that the milk provided in small closed cartons couldn't possibly have been drugged so I drank it. When I took a break to go to the bathroom, I took my glass of water with me. I poured the water down the sink and replaced it with tap water.
I decided to go to sleep early that night while other patients were watching a video cassette of "Batman" (with Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson) which I'd already seen only out of curiosity as I usually avoided juvenile movies (unless work-related). Finding it difficult to fall asleep, I left my bed and stood outside the day room to find out if the movie had ended yet. Surprisingly, "Batman" was still on and I realized the patients watching the movie were debating about what was wrong with the video. I thought perhaps it was a faultily recorded tape. When I glanced at the pay telephone in the hall, I noticed something else that seemed curious. The hospital was named Alhambra yet the address on the telephone showed Rosemead.
That night, a problem developed with the hospital's plumbing and the water was turned off, which meant the toilet in the bathroom adjoining the bedroom couldn't be flushed with three people needing to use it. Plumbing was among the amenities of life one usually takes for granted. Things seemed like they couldn't get any worse as I again tried to go to sleep. Only two more days to go during the 72-hour hold, I reminded myself. Although the toilet didn't work, there was still a slight trickle of water from the sink faucet so I would continue replacing the water given to me with water from this sink.
I awoke when a loud noise commenced that can only be described as demonic growling. Horrified and completely shocked, I realized that this was a stunt beyond the investigative capabilities of the medical staff. The growl was more convincing than any of the sound effects heard in "The Exorcist" yet definitely extremely similar. After a few minutes, the growl repeated and I realized it was coming from the throat of the young man in the bed a few feet across from mine. I couldn't imagine how such a thing as this could be happening. I didn't remember exactly reading about this in historical possession accounts. I realized that people throughout the hospital would hear the animalistic growling and probably think it was coming from me. The next time the growl issued was particularly loud and uncanny so I quickly left my bed and nudged the youth's shoulder. He awoke and I declared loudly so that our third roommate would be sure to understand from whom the growling was coming, "You were snoring."
I awoke when a loud noise commenced that can only be described as demonic growling. Horrified and completely shocked, I realized that this was a stunt beyond the investigative capabilities of the medical staff. The growl was more convincing than any of the sound effects heard in "The Exorcist" yet definitely extremely similar. After a few minutes, the growl repeated and I realized it was coming from the throat of the young man in the bed a few feet across from mine. I couldn't imagine how such a thing as this could be happening. I didn't remember exactly reading about this in historical possession accounts. I realized that people throughout the hospital would hear the animalistic growling and probably think it was coming from me. The next time the growl issued was particularly loud and uncanny so I quickly left my bed and nudged the youth's shoulder. He awoke and I declared loudly so that our third roommate would be sure to understand from whom the growling was coming, "You were snoring."
After that, there was no more demonic growling.
On Saturday morning, I was the last one in my room to awaken and the others were not in their beds as I made my way to the bathroom. Upon glimpsing the unflushed toilet, the sight was enough to make me retch. In case there was a security camera behind the mirror I remarked loudly with a shrug: "The vomiting scene." I felt just like Woody Allen.
As I continued throwing up—dismayed that this also was a symptom that could perhaps be equated with demonic possession—the day nurse, Jesus, started calling my name and hurried in to the room to see if I was all right. I soon regained my composure but decided to avoid the bathroom for the time being. I felt a little sorry for myself. I'd never expected to find myself suspected of being a crazed psychotic under lockdown in the Los Angeles equivalent of Bedlam (or at least Bellevue).
As Saturday morning progressed, nobody said anything directly about the unusual goings-on of the previous day and night. I became more concerned about my being in the hospital at lunchtime when every other patient was permitted to go outside for a barbecue except me. Consistently throughout my stay at CPC Alhambra, other people were constantly complaining about how hot it was outside when all I could think about was how miserable it was staying inside. Taking a stroll down the corridor, I noticed that one of the other patients was carrying a paperback novel entitled Aztec.
This image from the movie "The Music Lovers" (1971) is indicative of my previous orientation to 'lunatic asylums.' Glenda Jackson portrayed Tchaikovsky's demented wife Nina who informs him: "And here I have so many lovers!"
As Saturday morning progressed, nobody said anything directly about the unusual goings-on of the previous day and night. I became more concerned about my being in the hospital at lunchtime when every other patient was permitted to go outside for a barbecue except me. Consistently throughout my stay at CPC Alhambra, other people were constantly complaining about how hot it was outside when all I could think about was how miserable it was staying inside. Taking a stroll down the corridor, I noticed that one of the other patients was carrying a paperback novel entitled Aztec.
The maintenance personnel painted over dirty spots on the wall of my room as this was faster and easier than scrubbing them. The smell of the paint sickened me while no fresh air could be let in since the windows were incapable of being opened. I was beginning to feel treated like a caged animal.
On more than one occasion, other patients handed me plastic eating utensils at odd times without explanation. I first thought they were just trying to be helpful but then it suddenly dawned on me that if a doctor or nurse found me walking around with these things, an ominous interpretation could be the result so I threw all the plastic cutlery away.
One of the staff members invited me to participate in playing a children's board game where the object was to take turns rolling the dice and moving your marker until gaining precisely the correct number that would enable you to reach the finish area at the center of the board.
While these games usually bored me, playing became interesting when I realized the other patients weren't moving their pawns correctly without our supervisor reiterating the rules or interceding. Amidst the chaotic board movements, when it was my turn to roll the dice and the precise number came up that allowed me to move my pawn to the center area, the supervisor looked befuddled. "I win," I said happily because I was glad that the drab game was over.
I realized it might be advantageous to see what I could find out about the third man who shared my room. He never participated in any of the activities required for me; in fact he'd never been in the same room with me during any of the activities whatsoever. I scrutinized the roster of patients at the nursing station. By looking at the ages listed with the various names in addition to my own, it seemed that the only possible match for him was a male age 39—the same age as me—designated "Carpenter." This seemed an odd thing.
My brother showed up to bring me a few books and some spare T-shirts so I was relieved to have something new to wear. I told him that he had to help me make sure I would be released tomorrow as originally arranged and he seemed amused that I was even considering that this mightn't be the case. An MTV promotional shirt displayed an artistic rendering of the Earth and another T-shirt was a tie-in to one of the Orion films he'd worked on, "Little Man Tate," with red letters on the back proclaiming "My Mom Thinks I'm A Genius." Marie also visited and graciously agreed to pick up some more underwear and socks at my condo. When I expressed anger to her about my brother and friends for having arranged for me to come here, Marie assured me that I could always trust Mike.
At lunchtime, when I attempted to get water from the faucet, a small trickle was all that came out because of the ongoing plumbing problem yet there was enough water for me to fill my plastic cup. At the table where the others were eating, I was sitting next to my usually quiet friend in the wheelchair and always mindful of the monitoring device. Suddenly she began talking to me with a soft and steady voice about the Great Creator, life "at Home" and crop harvests on some other planet.
Now it seemed Michael had allowed some alien entity to manifest although the being had not offered any name. The strange behavior wasn't being staged; upon appraising such a possibility, I considered myself a skillful evaluator of good and bad acting — neither was suggested by the bizarre changes in personality that I'd observed.
A nurse mentioned some of my remarks in the interdisciplinary notes for Saturday during my second day of incarceration.
Upon asking a peer to sign voluntary, Mr. Russell ran over to this nurse and peer and stated "Don't listen to them and don't sign any paper you don't want to sign." Is also refusing all his meds stating, "The Dr. did not explain to me what or why he prescribed this so I'm not going to take them."
Other notations made by a nurse mention "bipolar disorder" and "paranoid psychosis." The psychiatrist made some brief handwritten notes.
Patient has refused to take his meds. Says he has no more delusions and that he is thinking better. He is more calm and less anxious. Discussed with him the need for meds — he said he is not yet ready to take them. Talked with mother who is concerned that he is angry at her. Will continue to . . . (last few words illegible)
It's obvious the psychiatrist wasn't giving exact quotations because I wasn't planning on ever beginning to take my 'meds.' In a mental institution, from my own experience there are obvious reasons that a patient might justifiably show signs of paranoia and treat staff with a guarded, suspicious demeanor. In my case, I felt confident that 'Michael' would soon be able to accomplish his objective for my being at CPC Alhambra and then I'd be able to leave. A recreational therapist's note for the day is worded (some abbreviations expanded):
Patient actively participated in two groups today; exercise/recreation groups. Patient anxious, able to follow directives with minimum — moderate prompts. In small group recreation activity patient engaged minimally and interacted with peers.
The RT had the letter sequence 'BEL' in her name.
I spent some of the afternoon with the reading materials that my brother had brought me. There was Granta number 47 ( Spring 1994), "a paperback magazine of new writing." The theme for this issue was "LOSERS" and the cover showed an antique photo of a distressed child sitting in the corner of a room wearing a large, rolled-up paper dunce's cap and smock while two of her playmates seem preoccupied with having their picture taken instead of considering her forlorn predicament. (how ironic is my reaction in 2019) I guess Mike and James didn't realize that 'losers' was a theme that might upset me in my present circumstances and I vowed not to read the magazine during my stay at Alhambra. There were a couple poetry books: Poetry for Pleasure (1977) anthologized by Ian Parsons and a paperback of Selected Poetry of W.H. Auden (1971). The Auden paperback and the edition of Granta had to have come from the bookcase of James. Also bestowed upon me was the curiously titled book The Kid Stays In The Picture (1994), a biography of Robert Evans. I was somewhat interested in reading about Evans but didn't expect it to be a frank and unguarded account comparable to the tell-all You'll Never Eat Lunch In This Town Again (1991) by Julia Phillips. It was evident I would have a lot of time to read this weekend so I decided to alternate between the three acceptable alternatives.
During the breaks when I was allowed to visit the patio, I stood as far away from the smokers, including staff members, as I could. My conscience never would have allowed me to smoke cigarettes.
During one evening break as I was returning back inside with the others, I noticed nobody had remembered to push the elderly boxer in his wheelchair back inside. I wondered if perhaps I should do that as the wheelchair seemed to be directly in my path. I decided against helping him as I had enough on my mind and, besides, pushing the wheelchair was something the staff was paid to do. As I reflected upon the situation, my conscience weighed upon me. In retrospect, what I understood to be 'my conscience' could also be understood through an awareness of Michael. When I had another opportunity to push the wheelchair I responded in the more appropriate way.
On Sunday I awoke early. I happened to glance out a bedroom window just as a cat was moving so slowly down the walkway that it seemed to be happening in 'slow-motion.' I was reminded of how time could give one an impression of being slow or fast and here at the hospital the minutes seemed to be passing at a languorous pace. I didn't have much else to do other than reflecting about my quandary.
Upon discovering that the plumbing was working again, I went to the nurse's station to get some shampoo to wash my hair but there was nobody at the counter. I found myself alone in the lobby with the kindly older man and a middle-aged woman patient who'd always previously been congenial toward me. She told me in her usual cheerful manner, "You can leave anytime you want just by walking out that door." I reacted by attempting to open the front door and found it locked. The woman then said with sudden vehemence, "He thinks he's the son of God but he's nothing but a fat slob." I'd never said to anyone that I thought such a thing about myself or even about the historical Jesus being literally such an individual. (I would later become familiar with transcendental communication transcripts articulating a universal and omnipresent 'Christ Spirit' and this is a more realistic conception of 'Son of God'; while any human being who accomplishes good works can perhaps be considered a metaphorical 'son of God.' In 1995 I'd never accomplished anything particularly benevolent other than always just trying to be nice and polite with everybody.)
All the patients were continuing to be similarly unpredictable. It seemed like whenever I would begin feeling optimistic about going home, I'd hear something said that would make me think it wasn't likely I'd ever be released. I even had the feeling that some manner of psychic energy source was laughing victoriously at me during my fearful periods. Those moments were the worst feeling that I could ever recall having experienced throughout my entire life and haven’t ever recurred since then.
In the morning exercise session, it seemed that the hospital staff had arranged it so that nobody with whom I'd interacted with before were there. The new patients that I met included a young Oriental girl. I was astonished when she told me she'd been having problems since commencing paranormal studies at an Eastern university. As strange a coincidence as this seemed, I believed she wasn't making it up because after taking her medication a profound change came over her that would leave her in an almost zombie-like state with her eyelids often fluttering. She didn't offer many more details about her situation. During one of the scheduled patio breaks, the girl began practicing karate moves while in her drugged stupor. When I noticed shimmering sunlight reflecting off the tarp draped along the fence surrounding the patio, it struck me as resembling a soundstage blue screen. (Much of my life experience revolved around movies, after all.)
When I called my mother, she was indignant about my being institutionalized: "Do you know where you are!?" As I explained about Mike and my friends accomplishing an 'intervention,' Ellen became incensed that he could've done something so ridiculous. She volunteered to come and visit but I told her that it wasn't necessary. I didn't want someone as neurotic as my mother to speak on my behalf. When I told her the name of my hospital psychiatrist, she realized that she personally knew him. He'd been an internist when they both were coworkers at St. Luke Hospital.
When I asked a nurse what had happened to some of the patients I'd met previously, I was told that they'd gone over to 'the other side' (other ward) of the hospital. One patient who now seemed to be standing near me much of the time was a laconic young Latino man who didn't say practically anything. He was yet another patient who didn't seem to be psychologically disturbed in any way.
The temperament of a friendly black man reminded me of my own frame of mind, feeling bewildered to find himself a patient in a mental hospital and dedicating himself to doing whatever was necessary to get out as soon as possible so he could go back to work. He told me he was an auto mechanic. After talking with him a while, he gave me a look of bewilderment and said, "How'd you get to be here, anyway?"
"I began telling people that I'm the reincarnation of Jesus Christ."
He was shocked, "Oh man, that's not a good thing to be telling people. Mark, Mark — why'd you have to go and do something like that for?"
I smiled.
Once when I was getting toothpaste or something at the counter, I was given a red knit shirt with a Frito Lay logo. I told them I'd never seen it before and it must belong to someone else yet I was told to keep it as maybe my brother or friends had brought it for me. I thought to myself that it didn't really matter how it came to be among my things, Michael could've materialized it or perhaps a spontaneous subconscious thought expressing divine guidance might have influenced someone to give the shirt to me. The logo on the shirt had a little pyramid under the 'R' and what looked like a 'G' inside the 'O' — another Egyptian correlation and the 'G' must stand for God I thought. Previously, I'd first learned about the Centrahoma case from an article in a magazine with a photo of the Sphinx on the cover; and then during my time in Oklahoma there was one night when I heard repeated knocking on my hotel door and eventually discovered that the sounds were caused by a large scarab beetle with wings continuously flinging itself against my hotel door for many minutes.
I began wondering if myriads of people were brought to places like this 'psychiatric hospital' as a 'safe' situation for the Superconscious Mind of the cosmos to reveal 'Themselves' — or maybe a person was brought to a place like this after experiencing something that induced a reconceptualization about what constituted 'reality.'
I began wondering if myriads of people were brought to places like this 'psychiatric hospital' as a 'safe' situation for the Superconscious Mind of the cosmos to reveal 'Themselves' — or maybe a person was brought to a place like this after experiencing something that induced a reconceptualization about what constituted 'reality.'
During my meeting with the psychiatrist, I was adamant about being ready to go home. I remember commenting about the book I was reading. "I've never met Bob Evans but I have met Roy Radin." (Roy was the nice bus and truck tour stage producer who was murdered in Los Angeles as he attempted to begin a movie career by becoming a co-producer of "The Cotton Club." Although I'd worked on several movies produced by Evans, I don't recall ever interacting with him personally.)
The progress notes from the RN for the day designated "Remains guarded/suspicious sitting in lobby watching staff/peers interactions" while my psychiatrist wrote:
Patient continues to be suspicious and will not accept the fact that he needs meds and treatment. He refuses to sign self in voluntarily - has lapses of attention and remains extremely guarded. Believe he needs additional treatment and will place on 14 day as danger to self and gravely disabled by his illness.
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