“Things were reaching the boiling point, my stress level was getting higher and higher. I was at 7 out of 10. I knew that I was boiling over, getting violent, that I didn’t want to have anything to do with anyone or have someone lecture me. 

I was in no condition to listen to anyone or even to hear what they were saying. I felt I was beginning to lose the ability to distinguish between right and wrong. 

I no longer trusted anyone, and I was fed up with hearing all the voices in my head from my conscience, my subconscience and maybe even people at home. I decided to get out and find someone responsible who could help me solve my problem as quickly as possible. 

When I got to my friend’s house, a specialist, I was in a state of crisis at 9 out of 10. Swallowing my pride, I told him how things were and that I needed to be brought to Emergency for psychological distress.  We took my car, and he drove, for safety’s sake. 

When we got to the hospital, I gave him my wallet and my medicare card, etc. before going in. I headed right inside, without stopping at the desk or anywhere, and crouched down into a ball at the end of the corridor, ready to defend my personal bubble and strike out at the first person who came too close. 

The noise, the atmosphere, the people crowding around me to see, the nurse trying to approach me...PHEW!...my stress level was maxed at 10 out of 10. Fortunately, my friend was there: he stepped in and calmed things down, giving me a chance to pull myself together so no one would be hurt and asking the nurse to stay at a distance and check if there was an isolation room for me.  

The next day, I was offered a bed two floors up. I heard the doctor say: “We’ll give him this medication and take him up to the 4^th floor.” I suspected the 4^th floor was where you knew when were going in, but never when you were coming out and in what condition, better or worse? In any event, in the past, the door used to be locked to keep people in. 

I was so stressed out, so mixed up, so confused, and having so much difficulty distinguishing between right and wrong that I ran away from the hospital, making things worse, in spite of myself. The doctor called the police who turned up at my mother’s and he also issued a certificate for committal because I was no longer in control of myself, and he was clearly in a position to know. I didn’t really know what to do, but I knew that I couldn’t go home because I had done something wrong, even though in my mind, I didn’t exactly understand what. I was terribly confused.