On the third day they were able to move slightly away for a few seconds before my legs gave
way. Later, when the one visitor for the day arrived, I told her that I thought my life was over even
if they did manage to get me out.
My despair was deeper than it had been when I was tied to the bed, and my fear greater. A fear of
living as an invalid, a burden to my family, and a fear of not being
able to endure it. I have never had thoughts of suicide, I have never even been depressed
to any significant degree, certainly not for very long. But I was afraid of what would happen
to my mind.
During the last week or so I managed to stand and walk short distances using a walker.
Two or three times I was able to leave the room and walk a short distance down the hall,
the therapist and his assistant close and steadying me and the walker as necessary.
As I walked past each room I looked in and saw in most an old person lying on the bed,
face up, as if in a coffin. If the eyes were open they were looking at the ceiling.
They all looked the same. I had lain that way for months, and I wondered how many of
them might be in my situation, and didn't have anyone to rescue them. They had almost
killed me, I knew, and given my condition might yet succeed.
But I would rather go home and die with people who cared for me than alone in a hospital bed.
All I wanted was to get out of there, whatever the consequences.
I was still considerably reality-impaired (I would later learn that they were continuing to
administer the psychotropic drugs until the day I left) and so relied on my family to get
me through the final days.
The hospital would only agree to release me to their custody after their warnings of dire
consequences if I were removed and requiring them to sign waivers and releases, but finally
that was done.