Not everything that happened in the psychiatric facility described in the previous entry was humane. For example, there was a very disturbing turn of events that took place after I noticed that, while all the other patients were receiving caffeinated coffee with their breakfasts, I alone was condemned to decaf.
When I asked why this was, a psych tech named Steve stepped forward. The following conversation ensued.
Steve: Well, Andy, because you are bipolar, we feel that regular coffee would hype you up too much.
Andy: But I’ve been having a cup of coffee every day since I was 19 years old. I can tell you for a fact that a cup of coffee relaxes me.
Steve: If you were ADHD, the cup of coffee would relax you. But since you are bipolar, the cup of coffee hypes you up.
Andy: Well then, I suppose I must be ADHD, because as I just told you, my morning cup of coffee relaxes me.
Steve: Andy, be honest with us. You know for a fact that because you are bipolar, your morning cup of coffee does not relax you! Your cup of coffee makes you hyper.
Andy: But Steve, don’t you think I know how my morning cup of coffee affects me?
Steve: Listen Andy, we know that you want help, but you seem to want the help to happen on your own terms!
Andy: My own terms? A cup of coffee in the morning is my own terms? ME AND THIRTY-FIVE MILLION OTHER AMERICANS??
Suddenly, about five mental health workers leaped out of their seats, and before I knew it, I was being given a shot of concentrated Zyprexa on my tongue. Everything went black.
Approximately 24 hours later, I woke up to the sight of another psych tech, a fellow named Tim whom I had remembered from my first incarceration in said facility back in 2004. He was dressed entirely in black, which I recall caused a disturbed schizo-affective back in 2004 to think he was a manifestation of the devil. I, however, knew him to be a pretty nice guy.
“Andy, don’t make a big deal out of a cup of coffee here, man — it’s not going to work in your favor.”
“I don’t know, Tim. It just doesn’t seem like three days of forced caffeine withdrawal is working in my favor either.”
As I began, in my typical fashion, to go over the heads of everybody and anybody in order to secure my badly needed cup of coffee, I eventually landed at the director of the institution, who happened to be from Austria.
I guess they think a little bit differently over there in Austria. The psych techs who had forced the Zyprexa concentrate into my body were reprimanded, and my cup of coffee was made manifest on the third day.
Just in time for me to meet Greg the Bartender and head towards Stockton. But in all due deference to those who have been asking me to write my memoirs, I’m pretty sure the buck stops here.
Or does it?
TO BE CONTINUED
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