1 0 - D A Y S - I N - T H E - M A D H O U S E





I wrote this during my ten-day confinement in the Luise Neumann Sanatorium, north of Berlin.

DAY 1.


So, it's my second night at the Luise Neumann sanatorium. Although, this is considered to be my first of a ten-day stretch in which I am now enduring. The first night was just a twenty-four-hour preliminary examination. Now the real fun begins.

My main doctor suggested that I write down my experience here. The fifty-something-year-old Doctor Kinski looked like a doctor should: short, balding, and with the appropriate German accent. All that's missing from the stereotype was the sofa in his office – that being my biggest disappointment to date. It's truly fucking sad that there's no psychologist sofa for me to lie down upon and whine on about my whatever-fucking-childhood.

It had been an emotional year and things finally reached a peak, so I took some advice and sought professional help. I contacted a few people who lead me to others, and soon I was on a train into the woods just outside of Berlin. It was surprisingly easy. I had anticipated this being an agonizingly difficult process due to the language barrier but finding a place where they spoke English went remarkably smooth. On Wednesday 16th November I checked myself into the Luise Neumann Sanatorium for a standard twenty-four-hour examination. But why check myself into an insane asylum? Because after thirty-three-fucking-years of being told that I'm fucking sick in the head, I snapped. I got sick of being called fucking sick! I wanted to clear this up once and for all. Especially after I was recently labeled 'borderline', which seemed a fair comment at the time, but I wanted a professional opinion on the matter.

So, on Wednesday I admitted myself. Unfortunately, no men in white coats came to collect me. My friends didn't arrange an intervention. I took the initiative and walked freely into the madhouse.

That afternoon the winter air was still, and a pale haze clung to the forest road that led around a lake to the main complex. A dark stone building that looked as if it had survived both World Wars. If this was a ghost story, then the only thing missing was the creepy violins building up a terrifying atmosphere. I liked the place. I felt no sense of impending doom or dread or anxiety at all. I was being rational. My only interest in being there was to find out if I truly was fucking insane.

Upon arriving, a slightly retarded looking Asian girl at the front desk told me to sit in a waiting room.

Only four hours later did I meet my first doctor. Doctor Uhl was a young bald man, not who I would have imagined as the head psychologist. He looked more like train driver, or someone working at Burger King. To my relief, he was just there to take down my details and ask a few basic questions. His office was tiny. This was my first encounter with their lack of sofas. Anyway. I talked. Told him my reasons for being there, and he laughed. I wanted to smash my fucking chair over his think skull and burn the place to the ground!

I didn't.

Instead, I told him that that was exactly what I felt like doing. After all, I was there to be honest about how I fucking felt and talk about all the fucking things I thought. He stopped laughing, and then left me alone in his tiny office.

Half an hour later, I was taken to meet Doctor Kinski for the first time. His office was much bigger. We talked for a couple of hours, and soon, one by one, several other doctors came in, asked a question or two, and then left. Some would just stand by the door and stare at me like I was stripper or something. They all seemed very curious about my ideas toward relationships and the violence of my thought patterns. It really was like those bad cop movies, where they keep asking you the same fucking questions again and again.

Eventually, I stayed the night. My room was like a closet, cold with stained walls that looked like cardboard. All through the night I could hear the moans of other patients echoing throughout the building – I however, slept like a fucking baby.

The next day I was given blood tests and a physical check-up. Then I met Doctor Stegner in her office. She was a stick-figure of a vile looking creature. I could tell she had no time nor interested in me. On recollection, I'm sure she only looked up from her desk once and that was to check the clock.

So far, I had done a lot of talking and heard nothing in return. It all seemed like a waste of fucking time. But Kinski said there was no harm in staying for a ten-day trial period. I said what the fuck.

I went home on the train. Wrote on Facebook that was going away. No one took it seriously of course. And I didn't tell anyone face to face. Why should I.

And here I am.

What a first day it's been. I got to meet my roommate Otto, he looks like a sixteen-year-old junky. He seemed nervous as fuck, and I didn't make him feel any better. But I'm not here to make friends with psychos. I had my first group-session. There are about eight of us. From twenties to fifties. All men. I can't remember where exactly everyone was from, but from right across Europe. English was the common bond, the only bond. And if you asked me, it was just another waste of my fucking time. Small talk. That was, until the fat guy sudden jumped up and attacked the guy next to him! It was awesome! I sat and watched this guy get his head punched in. It was just like school all over again. The orderlies soon burst in and viciously dragged that fat ass the fuck away like he was a wild animal.

At lunch, I drank some awful black tea and looked over the lunch room. There must have been about forty patients. Everyone was in their pajamas, white bathrobes, and slippers. I have to say, it's fucking freezing in this fucking place! The cold alone is enough to drive you fucking nuts in here. Bathrobes? I don't need a fucking bathrobe, I need a goddamned sleeping bag!

As far as my voluntary treatment goes, I'm allowed to keep my cell phone and read my book, but having no music is a real cunt. I was in the middle of free-association with Doctor Kinski this evening when I got some texts from a female of the species. Kinski suggested that I didn't use my phone while here. And due to the content of the text messages, I reckoned that he had a point.

Yes, you guessed it, I talked about my childhood and my relationship to my family. I found it hard not to laugh. And I had to ask, how many patients actually wanted to fuck their parents. Kinski declined to answer.

After my one-on-one, I saw an ambulance arrive out the front. Whatever had happened it must have been serious, because the police soon showed up.

At dinner, a middle-aged woman sat next to me. She looked normal. Looked like a typical mother. She was Russian or something and seemed interested in my tattoos. I asked her how long she had been in here. She just started to cry. Not sobbing, she just sat there, staring at me as tears ran down her eyes. I don't know what the fuck she was crying about, the food was pretty fucking tasty.

Back in my room, Otto seemed keen to impress me, and was talking shit at high-speed. I wasn't interested. Until the fire-alarm suddenly rang out!

Hanging around inside the hospital in bathrobes is cold enough, standing outside however, isn't fucking funny in the slightest!

I wasn't sure what the fucking deal was, but no fire-trucks came, and so, slowly we were all moved back inside. I don't know if I'm crazy, but I seemed to fit in perfectly with these subhumans. No one stared at me and no one cared. But I'm not here to fit in. I'm looking for answers. Though, thus far, the only thing that I've learned is that this place is a fucking shit-hole.

DAY 2.


I woke up this morning when the lights automatically burst on at 7am! I hate early mornings, especially on a fucking Saturday!

After taking a good hot shower, I stepped into the bathroom's changing room and found a frail old man standing naked, pointing a crooked finger right at me. I stood still in just my towel, and then he started screaming! Screaming like a woman. I ignored the demented fuck and walked out back to my room. I guess that's when some other patients first saw the rest of tattoos, because the whole corridor suddenly went deathly silent.

I'm now a freak among freaks.

For breakfast I had two cups of that shit black tea, while counting the number of eyes staring at me: sixteen pairs.

Being Saturday, we had art class before lunch. I just stood by the window and looked out at the iron front gates, the overcast sky, and all those surrounding dark trees. Have I become just another crazed idiot staring out the window believing he's a philosopher, while the orderlies laugh their tits off at him. But to be honest, it was the warmest place in the fucking room, there next to the radiator. The after-glow from my boiling hot shower had faded, and the cold was sinking its teeth in again.

Then in came Doctor Bitch (Doctor Stegner). I watched her move from patient to patient, criticizing everything that they did. I find it curious how I refer to people here as 'patients' or 'doctors'. The line between who is in charge and who is less than human is clear, and I'm one of them. At least here they don't pretend to be your friend. So, Doctor Bitch marched over and demanded to know why I wasn't finger painting with the rest of the fuck-tards. I said I don't paint. She then held up a tiny plastic cup with several pale pills inside. Medication? I didn't agree to take drugs during my stay. She then said that either I take the pills, or I paint.

I sat down next to a couple of dim-witted fools, picked up a crayon, and grabbed some of that cheap-ass newsprint paper. I'm having serious doubts that this co-called therapy is anything but a bad joke. After a few minutes of drawing, I found myself sitting alone in the room. Looking up, I spotted all the patients crowded next to the double doors. I hadn't even noticed them move there. Doctor Bitch soon returned. She wasn't impressed by my picture, but clearly the patients had had an emotional reaction to it. I had intended to avoid talking about my art while I was there. Guess I can't now.

So, I'm typing this at lunch. I will soon have a one-on-one with my weekend doctor. Let's see if I failed art class like I did at high school.

Okay, so it's now nearly midnight. After lunch, I had my appointment with the weekend intern, the mid-twenties Helm. You got to be kidding me. They send a kid in here to deal with my shit. Fuck him! I spent the next few hours spewing my attitude toward popular art on this guy, before I went on about the fucking shit art that I make. Let's just say he didn't cure me, but I think I have a new fan. Fuck!

My mood was not exactly upbeat when I made my way to dinner, and then I saw a police van in the drive way. I went and asked the retarded Asian girl at the front desk what was going on. She told me that there was another building out the back where they kept the real violent offenders. The plot thickens.

At dinner, everyone moved away from me. Until one of the orderlies handed over a pill and said it was from Doctor Bitch. I didn't take it.

After dinner, I read my book in the lounge near a radiator. About an hour later, I saw some naked female limping outside. I watched on as a car soon arrived. A man stepped out of the vehicle, yelling furiously at the woman like she was a stray dog in his headlights. That naked thing slowly turned around and stumbled up the front stairs without a word. Then someone started crying on the other side of the room. Madhouses are definitely not fun-houses.

I couldn't sleep, so got up about an hour after the lights went out. The place wasn't a prison, the doors weren't locked. I took a walk through the dark, echoing corridors. Went up to the fourth floor. Found a window with a view to the lake. Then went down to the ground floor and came across an old, indoor swimming pool. Well, it wasn't a pool for swimming. Too small. My mind wandered to evil Nazi experiments. And then I laughed at the effect that Hollywood films have had on my stay in there. There were no ghosts, no serial killers, and no Nazi doctors conducting Satanic experiments. The place was cold, dead, and ugly. And it smelled worse than most hospitals. It's the doctors that disappointed me with their lack of dedication. No, it's not disappointing. I knew this wasn't a fucking American movie where people actually give a fuck about each other. This was reality. These doctors are just doing their fucking job. I am just another patient. In a few days they will forget I ever existed.

DAY 3.


It's been a long Sunday. Probably due to that fact that I hardly slept and was then awoken at 7am! Every day was exactly the same in there. No sleep-ins on Sunday for this miserable fuck.

I had been thinking about how a lot of things at this insane asylum make very little sense.

First, I must have been a fucking idiot to have voluntarily put myself through this fucking shit! Case closed! I'm simply fucked in the head for staying here!

Second, why are there no locks on the doors?

Third, why am I even given a choice whether to take my meds?

Fourth, why am I allowed to use my cell phone and laptop when no one else can?

Fifth, why am I given options at all?

Is it because I have yet to be diagnosed as imbalanced? Am I really innocent until proven guilty? Or is this all a test?

It makes me worry what will happen if I fail. Seriously, being stuck in this place without the possibility of walking out, truly disturbs me more than that old guy who was pissing blood over my bedroom door this morning. Yet, if the other patients aren't allowed outside, how come I kept seeing people wandering about aimlessly? Was the security here just shit?

Anyway. To recap over today's retarded events.

After I yelled at the cunt to piss off, literally, from my doorstep, I skipped the showers and went straight to breakfast. Had my two cups of vile tea, and then went and asked the guy at the supply room if I could please get a second fucking bathrobe. I was fucking sick of freezing. He laughed like it was the funniest joke he'd already heard a thousand times before and handed me two more bathrobes and some woolly socks. Thanks, cunt! You could have just given me this shit when I had first fucking arrived!

So, I'm feeling a lot warmer in three robes now.

Today I had the option of Sunday church services or watching Forest Gump in the lounge. I decided however, to take a walk outside in my new winter gear. Surprisingly though, it wasn't even that cold today.

I took a stroll around the hospital. Basically, it's like a big 'U'. Once I got around the back, I found a path that led through the trees to a second facility. The holding cells for the real nutters, I assumed. So, I casually wandered over. It was about half the size of the main building, and closer to the lake. The windows were all barred, and I saw no one inside. I walked right around it and came to the edge of the lake where a small jetty extended into the murky waters. I stepped out and stood at the end looking around the quiet view. There were no other buildings anywhere. Just leafless trees encircling that large body of water. It would have been rather peaceful, if not for the screaming that suddenly erupted from the building behind. I then looked down and noticed what could have been blood stains on the cracked wood. Old, dried blood. This whole place just oozed with those warm fuzzy feelings of a chainsaw massacre.

By the time I slowly walked back to my building, I found all hell had broken loose. There was vomit everywhere! It turned out that there was something wrong with the breakfast, and everyone had indiscriminately been handed a plate of yummy food-poisoning. God bless my disgusting black-tea-diet. Suddenly some righteous old trout began hissing at me! I'm not kidding, she hissed like a psychotic cat, and then in her Eastern European accent, she started shrieking, "The mark of Cain!" She spat at my feet, before puking her guts up.

I'd be lying if I said that I didn't get some sense of delight from watching all these motherfuckers hurling upon themselves. Except the smell was something to make even a garbage-man's eyes water.

In my attempt to avoid the sickly, I went exploring again. And I found a library. It was clear that it didn't get a lot of use. The insane have the voices in their heads to inform them on anything that they will never need to know. I stayed in there for some hours reading my book, Language, Truth & Logic, by Alfred Jules Ayer. It has been one of the most painful books I've ever endured, yet at the same time it has some of the most incredible passages. If every kid studied this book at school, the world would be a far better place, but vastly more boring.

Lunch came. I went for some more tea and found the mess-hall nearly empty. No surprise. But then I noticed a girl sitting in a corner. Blame my 'biological interest' for needing to check her out. I walked up near the radiator and glanced down at the Bible on the table in front of her. Then I walked away. Fucking Bible-bashers.

As I went through the hospital, I found orderlies still cleaning up pools of vomit, and I didn't pity them in the slightest. I found Otto sleeping in our room, a bucket on the floor next to his face, so I continued walking. Glancing into the cell of another patient, I saw the walls covered in the drawings. Drawings of cathedrals and old cities. Fucking excellent work. I was about to walk on, except I noticed my own sketch from yesterday's class lying on the floor. Son of a bitch! But fuck it. He can have the piece of shit.

I was in the lounge, while the heavily edited Forest Gump played for a second time, when an ambulance arrived with a new patient. Just another old woman who had lost her marbles.

The afternoon was slow. By dinner time, I saw the Bible girl sitting alone.

It was about eight at night when I heard someone crying in the chapel room. I found that same chick sitting on the floor, hugging her knees. She looked up with big black eyes staring straight back at me. I sneered and left her to her fucking misery.

After three days in this fucking place what have I learned about myself? That my opinion is getting confirmed. The only thing insane about myself is my tolerance for this dump! Another seven days here are going to drive me worse than fucking crazy!

Unless... I entertain myself.

DAY 4.


Monday was shit. Same fucking psychos as every other day.

This place is shitting on my mood.

My one-on-one with the doctor was only a twenty-minute session.

The group therapy was chaos and ultimately a waste of time.

I have begun distracting myself by fucking with the patients. But is it really possible to mess with someone who's already fucked?

Let's find out.

Fucking hate this fucking place.

Started reading the new book by Richard Dawkins, The Magic Of Reality.

There is nothing to look forward to in this place, which reminds me, as above so below!

DAY 5.


In today's one-on-one session, the doctor said that I have a warped view of women. I have sadistic tendencies. I need anger management. And I should start taking medication to balance my emotional mood swings. But the icing on the cake, was being told to join a 12 Step Program. I couldn't help but laugh in his fucking face.

This place is getting me nowhere! It isn't telling me anything I didn't already fucking know! They're not offering solutions, they are just pigeon-holing me and sweeping me under a carpet of bureaucratic bullshit!

I don't know if this environment is beginning to affect me or if I'm really slipping off the edge, but I found myself walking around outside naked this evening. When the orderlies asked what I was doing, I didn't know what to say. I still don't.

My beard is growing.

I can hear them talking about me behind the walls. Fucking cunts! You think that just because you're not speaking English I don't understand what's going on?!

Later, when they're all asleep, when the drugs kick in, I'll look down on their helplessness. I know where they keep the fucking scissors.

DAY 6.


On my way to the showers this morning, I came across a little girl. She must have been seven or eight-years-old. She was standing in the middle of the corridor, staring into another room. I continued toward the bathroom, when she turned and looked up at me. Then in a perfect British accent, she asked, "Are you the devil?" Kids do take tattoos literally, don't they. But the next thing I knew, I was attacked from behind and slammed into a wall! Some tiny American guy with an Elvis-wannabe-hairdo swung wild punches while yelling at me! It was too fucking early in the morning for this crap. I shoved that little prick back with one giant push until I was on top of him, thumping his fucking skull against the cold floor – when suddenly I was the one getting dragged away by three fucking orderlies!

You fucking visitors. Can't you leave us sickfucks alone!

In the infirmary, Kinski apologized terribly for the incident, while a dragon-lady of a nurse bandaged my bloody face. Kinski said that the American's wife (a patient here), had killed herself last night, and the prick had obviously been drinking heavily since he had heard the news. I thought I could smell it on his rancid breath as he'd whined like a faggot.

At breakfast, I sat looking at my slightly bruised knuckles. They didn't even hurt. It was a good pain. A spider then crawled across the table. I used my empty cup to break its legs, four with one chop, and then I watched as it limped in circles.

My one-on-one today with Kinski was longer than normal. He wanted to talk about family, specifically why I didn't have kids of my own. I never wanted children, even as a kid I had the cognition that I never wanted to have any. I disliked myself at an early age. I was always the runt of the litter. The weaker brother. One of the first lessons that I learned at school, was that I definitely wasn't the smartest cookie in the cookie jar. Even as a child, the logic of the situation seemed fucking blatant. If I was flawed biologically, and I blamed my parents for creating me, then why would I do the same thing to another person? Why make someone who'd be just as fucked as I am? Sure, as I got older I adapted to my body and got a little clever, but only enough to trick people into thinking I was smarter than I actually was. Street-smarts. But that's not enough! Never was and never will be! But sure, there have been a couple of occasions during my life when I had reconsidered my conviction against having children. When I got engaged, was one. Hell, I had never thought I'd get married when I was younger. And yet, it turned out that I was right to begin with. We broke up! However, in my last relationship, we even talked about names for a kid. Had a good one too. But that's all over now! And like layers of sedimentary soil, I have accepted that my underlining conviction against fathering anyone was absolutely fucking right! I hate people and hate myself! Why create another worthless disappointment that would only fucking hate me too! Fuck that shit! The day I'm finally happy with myself, then, just maybe then, I might consider ruining it all again.

Kinski kept pushing. Why don't I want to be a father and pass on my knowledge to someone who will love me unconditionally?

Okay, listen up. I rejected my own family, so 'unconditional love' is dead to me! Proven fact! As for passing on my 'knowledge'. Has this fucking doctor been listening to a single motherfucking word I've been saying? Why do I read books about science and philosophy, because I don't know this basic shit! I'm a fucking idiot! I don't have any fucking knowledge! When I can remember the periodic table, when I can get a total understanding of how global economics work, and when I can fucking spell the entire English language correctly, I might claim to know something slightly fucking useful. Yet even at that point, that still doesn't mean of have a goddamned thing worth sharing beyond grade school intelligence! I do not want and never wish to be a father to a shell of a fucking worm!

So, Kinski asked if I was afraid of responsibility?

Fuck you, cunt! These fucking teenage whores spewing out endless amounts of fucking retarded brats take on no responsibility! Useless fucks spawning like the diseased fucking virus we ultimately are! Yeah, I see a lot of love in this fucking world! Child-rapists, wife-beaters, adult males playing computer games next to their deformed inbred offspring! How am I supposed to respect the sanctity of marriage or the family-unit when it is based on immature, short-sighted indulgence! And when I see these fat cows lining up at McDonald's to shove more oily shit into their swollen litter of pigs, I can't help but smile in disgust at their constant, mundane drudgery! Call me a sadist, call me selfish, call me irresponsible; but don't call those hideous slobs and their incestuous lust anything but the same! Fuck the family-unit! Fuck kids! And fuck this therapy!

I then got up and walked out of my one-on-one for an early lunchtime cup of tea, hoping to find another fucking spider.

In group today, I realized, these are my people! As revolting and disfigured as they may be, I am one of them. So why not become the king of fools. It still makes me an idiot, but it's better to reign in hell than serve in wherever the fuck is supposed to be better than this shit.

At dinner, I sat and scratched my unshaven face, as I looked to my left, and then to my right. Glaring at all those demented fucks, I couldn't help but smirk.

Later, I found that Otto had asked to be removed from my room. I tend to have this effect on people.

DAY 7.


This morning, after breakfast, I was taken into an office and interviewed by two cops.

Now, I know that sitting in front of the police is a serious thing, but my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about what I had been reading last night in Dawkins' book. Everything is about procreation. All I am is a survival-mechanism for the genes. 'Love' and all ideas of other importance are mere delusions. It reminded me of something my old business partner, AJ, once said, "Never give a girl an orgasm or you'll never get rid of her." Which brought to mind my past fuck-buddies, and how they always started out care-free, but after a certain amount of time, emotions got involved. And what do they say, that love is bio-chemically no different than consuming large quantities of chocolate. But I'm allergic to chocolate. So, let's connect all the dots. Love is nothing more than sexual-addiction wrapped up in fancy Christmas paper. It's all about procreation – the mind and soul be damned!

And then one of the cops WHACKED the side of my head! What the fuck?! Police brutality! Repeating themselves, they stated that apparently every day since I had arrived here, there had been a suicide. I waited for more. But they had nothing more. So? So, fucking what?! Is that the extent of their police work? They looked at the records, saw that I happened to arrive the same day these morons decided to call it quits, and that somehow makes me a suspect? Get the fuck out of here! If they're saying that I'm that influential on the minds of retards, that I can convince these dipshits to off themselves just by looking at them, then I must be fucking possessed! Get me to a nunnery! Get me to the exorcist! Get me a fucking medal for my black magick powers of fucking awesomeness!

Once I put it to the cops like that, the sour-faced shits let me return to the rest of the sheep without another question. Seriously, is that what you call a police investigation? Fuck the TV and its CSI horseshit! Cops are no more intelligent than the vegetables crawling down these very fucking corridors! For fuck's sake, I've been called a manipulative prick, but where is the evidence that I've gotten these fucks to slit their own fucking wrists? Were my fingerprints, hair, or semen sample found on the dead? Get the fuck out of here and go arrest the cunting drug-dealers at the clubs back in Berlin! No one, and I mean absolutely no human-fucking-being can dance, or even listen, to techno for seventy-two-motherfucking-hours straight, without the direct assistance of some pretty hefty class-A substances! Enough fucking said on this facade that's the so-called war on drugs. What did Bill Hicks say, "It's a war on personal freedom, keep that in mind at all times, okay."

I found out from the Asian mule at the front desk, that it was Otto who killed himself last night. Well, shit. No loss there.

I removed the plasters from my face this afternoon and started picking the fresh scabs. Am I a child? Maybe I need to get my ass kicked again. Put me in my place. Remind me of where I stand in the universe, and then have a laugh about it. You got to laugh about getting your ass whipped. It's like shitting your pants. Sure, it's not funny when it happens to you, but the next day, fuck, it's hilarious! I haven't shit myself in a while. I might be due for an accident sometime soon. Let's say, at dinner! I wonder if I could deliberately shit my pants in a crowded room?

In group today, they wanted to talk about fear, and what we were afraid of. Jesus fucking Christ, for the love of fuck, what the fuck?! Let's all cry, hug, and confess our childhood underlying fucking fear of the dark. Fuck! Is this what therapy was all about, nothing but cliched fucking one-liners. This whole establishment is trite with bullshit like this!

But back to fear. The guest-doctor-of-the-day asked what each patient was afraid of. You then got one of two replies: 1, they would talk nonsense that had nothing to do with anything. Or 2, they would start admitting all this heartfelt terror toward the whole wide world. Prior to my stay at this so-called hospital, I couldn't recall exactly how many girls had told me their rape stories. And after listening to the group confessions, I really must have had the only un-raped childhood in the last hundred years. Is that why I couldn't relate to any of those fucking assholes?

And then it was my turn. "Bruce, what are you afraid of?"

"I was eleven when it happened. It was late one night. I can't remember where my brother or sister were, but to be honest, it wasn't the first time. This time however, was the one I remember the most vividly, when I was eleven. When I first saw the movie Jaws! I was so terrified I literally crawled up the sofa trying to get away from the TV! It left a permanent psychological scar. And I swear to god, that's the sole reason why, to this day, that I still can't swim."

The doctor nodded his head as if I had told him that I had once witnessed my sister jerking off our pet dog. These fucking doctors are like rag dolls, totally desensitized. I could have said that I had just murdered his mother five minutes ago, and he'd probably murmur some deeply thoughtful noise, nod his head, and make a note to buy some more yellow post-its.

I couldn't believe the subject of the next topic. That we were all special. Oh, my fucking god! I spoke up before anyone else could, "If we're all equally special then that defeats the very fucking definition!" And I got up and walked out, yelling, "Yeah, special. Real fucking special!"

I went to take a piss and came across some guy crying his guts out in one of the stalls. I did my best to ignore that sorry sack of shit, but the cunt noticed me. He was American and started going on about it being Thanks Giving in the States right now. Oh, yeah. I forgot that was coming up. Like I give a shit! Americans and their universal belief that the entire world revolves around their egocentric fucking culture! I finished taking a leak and was well on my way out of the bathroom when the Yank came hurrying after me. He was yapping on about his mother and wherever the fuck he was from on whatever fucking coast. I did everything in my power to lose that fucker and avoid talking to him. But he wouldn't fuck off. He sat across the table from me in the art room, only to start crying again. Gritting my teeth, I asked what he was doing here? He cleared his eyes, saying that he had married a German girl and now she was pregnant, but he doesn't even love her. Before he could say another word, I stood up and whispered in his ear, "Ain't you just another real American hero. Your mommy must be so fucking proud." And then I walked off. I heard him start to weep again like a fucking baby. This place is full of cunts! And if these fucking doctors think they're going to get me to breakdown and repent; well shit, I'll dress up like a chicken and deep-fry myself long before that fucking happens! If I really am just like all of these fucking people, at least I still have some semblance of fucking dignity left!

After dinner, the girl I'd seen the other day in the chapel, took me by the hand and led me outside. I would have shaken her loose, but it had been over a week since I'd gotten laid. She took me down the driveway, away from the light of the building, when I finally stopped her. Looking straight in my eyes with those bloodshot holes of hers, she lifted her gown. I found it a fascinating sight. I had never seen a circumcised vagina firsthand before. An array of other self-inflicted cuts and scratches spread from her inner thighs and down to her knees. I've seen things like this before. But I still don't know why people insist of sharing their self-humiliation with me. To make me feel better about myself? Am I supposed to do something for them? Or should I start making a record of all these atrocities I'm blessed with the presence of? She seemed shocked by my lack of revulsion at her naked sight. I told her, "I'd fuck you in the ass if I had a condom. But I don't, so I won't." I was about to walk away, when she grabbed my arm. She then stepped back, bent over, and presented her sweet little booty. Oh, the frustration of this place just gets worse! Her pussy may have been a hacked-up piece of meat, but her rump was some fine fucking tail! However, I'm not stupid enough to sodomize some fucked-up slag without protection. No, sir. I don't think so.

DAY 8.


Last night I came as close as I have to leaving this place. Not because of the fuckwit patients, the lame-ass doctors, or how fucking freezing it is in here; but because I wanted to fuck an ex until she screamed. However, I managed to restrain my urges and shake some sense into myself. My weakness for girls is one of the main reasons I'm here in the first fucking place. Control your DSB (dangerous sperm build-up), damn it!

I woke up today with that frustrating tremor in my chest. I haven't 'released the pressure' in a while. I have this pet-theory about sperm, that it's like urine, not literally piss, but like when you got to go, you got to go! If you hold on it doesn't just go away, it gets worse! Cold sweaty palms, racing heart, grinding jaw. It's like withdrawals from a drug addiction. And I know I'm only going to get more hostile. When I was younger, people used to say, "You just need to get laid." But now, most people call me a fucking whore, and yet I'm still this pissed off! Therefore, even with sex I'm still an irritable son of a bitch, so if I stop my addiction now, how colossal will my anger become? Let's find out – or will I snap and rape that cunt from last night? Would that prove me sick? Is that the paradigm-shift I was looking for here? That sex keeps me sane. And if sex is an addiction, then it should be understandable that infidelity is absolutely justified for the benefit of my mental health.

In one-on-one with Doctor Kinski, he talked about how I needed routines to help me get through my days. Baby-steps. Yeah, but in this fucking place there aren't any priorities in any-fucking-thing. It's like being a cow herded from room to room, and therapy is like getting milked. I only wished that my doctor was a Victoria's Secret model, and then she could milk the shit out of me all day long! Sadly however, my doctor was an indifferent old gnome. Maybe he had a granddaughter who would happen to visit during our session today. Maybe. But probably not. Fuck, I need to get laid! Routine would be fine with me, if once a day we got a Thai massage with a complimentary happy-ending. Hell, I would live here full-time if that was part of the deal. I bet this place is hot shit in summer. Why the fuck did I have to test my sanity during a German winter?! Wait, what had the doctor been saying for the last ten minutes? I was finding it hard to concentrate. Routine, repeat, rehearse, copy and paste. But how will that improve anything? I understand that practice makes perfect, but there is no evolutionary trajectory in here. It's just an abnormal constant. There is no climax, no peak to climb, no conflict to overcome. This place doesn't challenge you. It makes you complacent and content to repeat the same old routine. This place is not interested in curing me. It wants me to stay the same and stay quiet!

Which reminded me of an ex-friend from a few years ago. She was depressive (like most of the world's population), and her therapist had told her to check into a place kind of like this. But after her initial examination, they decided that she was an alcoholic, so she had to check into rehab in order to sort out her substance-abuse before checking into the madhouse where she could deal with her depression. Well, six-months later she was still in rehab, so I went to visit her. You could say it was because I was a conscientious friend, or you could say, more accurately, because I was curious to see why anyone would happily spend six-long-fucking-months locked-up? The place she was in was the polar-opposite to the Luise Neumann sanatorium. It was summertime, in the south of Berlin, in a small house where everyone seemed pretty content. After I arrived, I understood why she was still there, and planning to stay another three months. A nine-month holiday! She was onto a winning ticket. Though, let's be clear, she wasn't a fucking alcoholic, compared to most Germans she was a fucking virgin! But she was excited about going straight into a clinic to deal with her depression. Yeah, she had a plan, and it was working. Laziness is the greatest achievement most humans strive for, and therefore, at rehab she was a total success. I call her an ex-friend because for the next year she would come up with excuses not to do anything. If she wanted to see me, I always had to visit her, and even then, she canceled most of the time. These people are not friends, these fucking people are scum! Sucking on daddy's wallet into her mid-twenties! Spoiled fucking brats! This world is full of these cunts! Whining about how tragic their fucking shit little lives are, while clinging to titles like fucking 'depression' like it's something to be fucking proud of. It's not! You're goddamn fucking right I'm pissed off! You can call it fucking 'hubris'! Fuck all these little self-pitying bitches! And while I'm at it, fuck all the genuine retards in this fucking shit-hole! Good for nothing! Yes, I condone killing babies with Down syndrome! A worthless waste of DNA that will never achieve Jack shit! A dog is higher on the fucking food-chain!

At this point Kinski said I needed to stop, he didn't like the direction my monologue was going. Maybe he was afraid that I might mention the German taboo and say something rash like: Hitler was right after all – but even I'm not dumb enough to assume that anyone here would find that sarcastic joke funny.

I left one-on-one only to get grabbed by some old woman in the hallway! I thrashed out and shoved the old cunt into the fucking wall! She collapsed like a bag of broken bones.

Wait a second. Did I just find the limits of my own psychologist? Jackpot!

I was in the lunch room cooling off with a cup of tea, when Doctor Bitch marched over and slammed down a tiny plastic cup packed to the brim with pills. She then stomped off without a word. What a cunt! I ground the pills up into a powder and dumped it in the giant pot of today's soup behind the sneeze-guard. The security really was shit. God knows what the other patients have put in the food.

One of the orderlies found me sitting on the front steps, he said that Kinski wanted another session this afternoon. I replied with half a grin, "Bring it on, brother!"

After lunch, Kinski and three other people sat in his office. They looked like students, interns, or maybe his kids? The only female was fat and not even slightly fuckable. Kinski got the ball rolling with the topic of jealousy. Bravo! Excellent choice! If subjects were like wine, this would be a superb year! My ex had a big problem with jealousy, and she seemed to think I did too. Let me give you an example of what pissed me off: vultures! I know what vultures are, as I used to be one. Yeah, when I was a teenager. When I was a fucking insecure little shit! A vulture either tries to fuck his friends, or waits till they break-up, and then swoops in and tries for a sympathy fuck. Spineless pricks! But what really annoyed me was when they told my ex how bad I was for her, and how much better they were. They're fucking cowards too fucking lazy to go find someone outside of their one and only social-circle. My girls were typically alpha-females, and generally seem attracted to me because I know my strengths and didn't compare my weaknesses to other fucking assholes. But when my ex began telling me about friends of mine trying to sleaze into her pants behind my back, that bothered me. Ultimately, it's my girl who pissed me off more than the vultures. Most girls are well aware that guys want to fuck them; and so, girls tease them along, treating guys like dumpsters to tell all their problems to. But the very act of her doing so, turned my friends against me and encouraged their vulture-like behavior.

And it was about here that the fire-alarm went off!

So, we all poured outside into the driveway, where we found the building was actually on fire this time! Smoke was gushing skyward from the backside.

It wasn't long before the fire-trucks arrived. However, whatever was burning must have been pretty small and contained, because it didn't take long before those in charge gave the place the all clear.

Kinski said that we would talk on Monday, and then he'd give his final report on my condition. I can't wait. It's just a shame I couldn't finish ranting about jealousy.

Later, I had gone to take a piss, and was walking down an empty, second level corridor, when I heard something smash at the other end! Then something heavy struck a wall! My first thought was that the fire had somehow spread, so I went to check it out. I found a broom lying on the floor, sticking halfway out of a distant doorway to my left. And then I heard voices. As I came up to the door frame, I turned, spotting one of the patients naked and hunched on top of Doctor Bitch (seriously, I can't remember her fucking name).

She saw me and cried out, "Hilfe!"

The slob of a man spun like an ape: wild and furious! I didn't even think about it; the only weapon was on the floor in front of me. I grabbed it just as that giant lunged at my throat! The broom swung up right between his legs! He instantly folded in half, and my inertia upward drove my skull right into that fucker's nose! We both fell away from each other. I wasted no time grabbing the now broken broom handle while that rapist moaned, clutching his face and balls in a fetal position. But suddenly he lashed out, so I beat his fucking head with the broom – until I was abruptly tackled by two orderlies from out of nowhere!

I was immediately thrown in a confinement room that was the size of a coffin. My mood was worse than hateful.

Shortly though, Kinski opened the door and took me to the infirmary. Again, he apologized. Doctor Bitch had explained that I'd stopped her attacker. Funny, that's not exactly how I would have put it. I had stopped 'my' attacker.

I spent the rest of the evening crafting a splinter of wood into a shank.

DAY 9.


I'm glad I wrote this diary while whittling away my time in this fucking shit-hole. I got kicked out of India in 2006 because I wrote a two-page e-mail about that fucking land of backwards inequality. If I had kept a diary then, it might have gotten me publicly executed. Remember, the truth shall only incriminate you. Back then, I had been told that my coworkers tended to go nuts after three months in India – I snapped within the first twenty-four-hours. Maybe the same happened here. The negative influence of the asylum had made me become part of what I was surrounded by. After all, aren't we just products of our environment. Social-conditioning made me this way. The cycle of abuse. Have I come full circle? The circle of life. Can you hear the Disney music chiming in somewhere in the background? That would make this experience perfect, if everyone suddenly jumped up and burst into spontaneous song and dance! I can see a Jesus-wannabe thrusting his pelvis on the lunch room tables while tilting his Elvis-sunglasses down as he winked at the old hag behind the kitchen counter. Fuck it, we're all mad in here, let's go fucking bananas!

It had been another early morning for a Saturday which had made me want to kill puppies. Both the patients and orderlies must have seen it on my face as I went to art class. I sat down and drew a picture of a dog crawling through the guts of another dead mutt, just because I could.

At lunch I went for a walk. The fog had finally fucked off, and everything was damp, but rather warm for winter. I went down past the second building, right as a whole series of police vans drove up. Six vans packed full of cops. I continued on my merry way to the old jetty – when a helicopter flew over the lake. I was standing on the jetty, watching the chopper, when several cops came yelling at me. Angry German cops always sound like Nazi soldiers in old war films. They came charging down the thin wharf demanding something I didn't understand – when the whole fucking wooden framing collapsed! I would have panicked, as I can't swim, but the cold was fucking mind-numbing! Thankfully, I was grabbed and dragged out by a cop, because I was about two seconds away from blacking out.

I somehow ended up in an infirmary, but not in my building. I was in a bed next to a couple of the cops who also fell in the water. My head felt like I had a fucking sandblaster pounding away at my brains. But I have to say, it was the warmest I had been since arriving at this clusterfuck. Snug as a bug in a rug in an atrocious mental asylum. I soon got a harsh talking to from some seriously uptight cops. Though, ultimately, they admitted that I really hadn't done anything wrong. But I should still watch my ass. Danke!

I had to spend the rest of the evening in the infirmary. This place was a lot cleaner, if smaller than the medical center in my building. However, there were a lot more screaming fucks in here. Loud, barking motherfuckers. It reminded me of the one and only time that I went to the Berlin Olympic Stadium to see the one and only football I will ever watch live. The game itself sucked cock, no one got a single goal, but what was impressive was the screaming crowd. Germans have some powerful lungs. I guess the psychos in this place are all football fans.

While listening to the endless shrieks of the truly demented, I began dwelling on my ex. Thinking of sex. Of good times. Thinking of all the things I wanted to do to her again. It was that usual post-break-up shit. I had had a realization earlier this year: the end of a long-term relationship is like a death. All the plans you make together for one possible future are all over, like they had died.

But hey, the post-break-up revenge-sex and then the get-back-together-sex was always fun. Things get nasty. Nasty but I do believe totally necessary. You're forced to say something or do something that suddenly pushes your perception over the point of no return. And then you can disconnect and no longer regret that it's fucking over. That nasty but necessary moment happened on the first day that I had arrived here. During those text messages last Friday. So maybe this whole asylum experience has been an appropriate place to direct my reaction to the end of a relationship. She had already taken enough of my dignity, so that being locked in this pit seemed like a mental vacation.

With all that time in bed, I got plenty of reading done. I was on the chapter about the Sun and stars, the bit where it said in two-billion years the Sun will become a red giant and fry Earth, but not to worry, because humans will be extinct long before then. It was one of those moments like when you look up at the sky at night and see how vast the universe is and then feel how small we really are. But then you see the flip-side, that if the universe is so enormous, then we really are unique within it. Unless you're living from day to tedious fucking day in this fucking place. Appreciating the same old shit day in, day out, gets fucking agonizing! And in two-billion fucking years, none of this will fucking matter any-fucking-way! So sure, let's just enjoy the here and now. But the here and now is cold, and isolated, and completely fucking shit! Fuck being grateful! The universe doesn't give a rat's ass about you!

I got to get the fuck out of this fucking place!

DAY 10.


So what kind of madness went down today? Where do I begin?

I woke up to someone screaming at me from my door! Some wretched old cunt was just shrieking. I jumped straight out of bed, shoved her away, and then slammed the fucking door shut! She continued screeching for no apparent reason, so I was forced to get dressed a whole two minutes before the lights automatically burst on at 7am.

I had a shower, then stepped out bare foot directly onto someone's fresh vomit. How infuriating the day was already becoming. I soon discovered, who I assumed was the puker, kneeling in a stall with another deranged fuck eating the very shit out of the toilet.

Making my way down stairs, I couldn't believe my luck, when another woman came screaming as she ran my way! But she tripped and fell dramatically down the huge staircase, nearly taking me with her. She landed flat on her face where blood exploded across the marble floor. I walked right past and continued toward the kitchen for my two cups of shit tea.

At breakfast, I sat thinking about a dream that I had had last night, which reminded me why I will never return to the motherland. Someone then dropped a tray on the floor – and another asshole started going ape-shit at a third smaller guy! The shouting prick went on and on at the little guy who clearly wanted nothing more than to simply disappear.

I went to get away from these fucking clowns and finished my tea on the front steps of the main entrance. It was actually a rather nice morning outside. Until the police drove up – here to see me. I swear, I have never been so popular!

The cops escorted me to the secure hospital, where I was sat in front of an angry looking senior officer. There I was asked to recall what I'd seen yesterday. Which was easy, because I hadn't see diddly-squat, apart from the chopper. That was exactly what they were interested in hearing about. Apparently, whoever was on the chopper was some serious piece of shit. But I wouldn't know, as I was taking swimming lessons, thanks to those other gung-ho cops.

An hour more of that bullshit bad-cop-routine of intimidation tactics only left me bored. Man, I've been eating, sleeping, and shitting with these fucking lunatics for a week now, your tough-guy act ain't impressing no one.

Eventually, I was free to return to my building, where I read my book in the lounge. But there's no rest for the wicked around here. That same asshole was still ripping on the skinny old guy for knocking over some other guy's breakfast tray, and they had followed me into the lounge. The son of bitch just wouldn't shut up. He then cornered the little chap behind a table which he kept pounding with both of his fists. The little guy looked like a starving dog that's been kicked every day of his pathetic fucking life. I just moved into another room full of sickly fucks all coughing their lungs out.

An hour later, I took a leak, and then went back to find that cunt still screaming at the little fuck. Do the doctors and orderlies actually want the patients to kill each other? Seriously, where the fuck is the peaceful environment needed in order to nurture a healthy rehabilitation? I moved into the lunch room and had a cup of tea while I read.

Soon in came a new girl. I think she was new. Five-foot-tall, long black hair, big tits. She walked straight over and asked if I had any cigarettes. Typical. Get the fuck away from me! Sneering, she marched off, when that yelling bastard came stomping after the skinny guy again. Jesus fuck! Are they deliberately trying to fuck with me! The big guy then started smacking the little guy on the side of his head, whacking his glasses off. He soon managed to put a table between him and the big guy. I however, was trapped on the side of that little shit, so I stood up. And finally, that ranting cunt shut his fucking mouth. I didn't do anything. I just stood next to the trembling runt and glared back at the bigger prick. He started laughing and backed away, muttering to himself while playing with his own hands. Finally, I could read my fucking book in silence. The little guy sat quietly nearby, like a pooch on a porch.

Before lunch I went to take another piss (I drink a lot of tea, so I make a lot of pee), and I heard some woman shrieking in the female toilets. I took my piss without a care in the world. On my way out of the bathroom, I found some chick crawling along the corridor floor, a trail of blood smeared behind her, coming from between her legs. Casually pushing open the door to the female bathroom, I glared at a twisted piece of wire lying in a large pool of blood. Nothing like a home-abortion to make a mess of things. I stepped over the moaning women and made damned sure I didn't get any of her fucking fluids on my slippers.

More tea for lunch, and a patient next to me ate the hair that he plucked from his head.

I took a walk outside. There Mr. Loud-mouth from earlier, suddenly crashed into my side and threw me to the ground! Pulling me back, he shoved me across the car park. At that point I was seeing more than red. Ripping my three bathrobes off, I grabbed the sharpened, wooden shank from the back of my PJ pants. I was going to bury my wooden blade into his fucking throat, and then stab my thumbs into his ugly fucking eyeballs! Standing my fucking ground, I watched that cunt grunt. So, I started punching my chest like an actual fucking caveman. I was so fucking mad that sweat dripped off my chest despite how fucking freezing it was out there. And then he threw himself at me – so I kicked toward the cunt – but that was when the fucking orderlies miraculously decided to step in!

It took three men to carry me away from that other fuck. I was then locked in my room for an hour while I cooled off – by punching the shit out of the door. It turned out that these doors could indeed be locked when required.

Later, I had a one-on-one with yet another young doctor. He asked what had happened outside. I told him that the cunt had jumped me, but don't worry, I'm okay, thanks, asshole.

Five minutes later, I was free and sharpening a new shank.

Dinner came, and it was like every other evening. Until screaming started. Nothing new. But it was more than a couple of people yelling. Everyone crowded around the big windows, so I went into the lounge for a better view. Some old woman was in the front garden wailing at the surrounding orderlies. And then she lit herself on fire! Wow! And I thought she had been screaming before. By the time someone came running with a fire-extinguisher, I'm pretty sure she was toast.

For my last night in this hell-hole, it sure got a lot more entertaining than most nights. I'd like to know if the drugs that they hand out so freely in this place are in fact transforming the idiots into animals. Because after the human-bonfire, they all went wild! Everyone ran about the building trashing everything! A party like 1999 all over again, but with actual anarchy this time! Homo sapiens in a primitive state of degeneration. Fuck Occupy Wall Street, these fucks knew how to riot. Overturning tables, smashing windows, and the whole mob screaming like scrapping cats! It was a simple case of numbers: the 99% psychos were all going berserk at once, and that was, for the meantime, too much for the 1% in charge to handle. The illusion of control had finally broken down. And I walked through the chaos and let it wash over me like pure bliss.

I got into my share of mischief, before the cops arrived and rounded everybody up like cattle, and then locked us in our rooms. Oh, the games I played. Let's just say, I left my mark on the building with sharp scratchy instruments and staining liquids.

And all during that last violent night, horrible sounds echoed throughout those small hours. Things were just getting interesting. But tomorrow I'd blow this Popsicle-stand and be loosed upon the greater asylum of the species. This is my fucking time!



I woke up feeling refreshed and with a mouth full of dried blood. At breakfast, apart from the broken shit, everyone acted as if nothing remarkable had happened last night. Just like they do in the rest of world. No one remembers.

So, I asked Doctor Kinski what the verdict was? He looked blankly back at me as if I had told him that his breath smelled like a fifteen-year-old's cunt. I put it another way and asked if I was insane?

He said morbidly, "You're not."

I smirked and slapped my thigh (literally), "That's what I've been saying for fucking years! I'm perfectly fine!"

Kinski cocked an eyebrow, "I didn't say that."

I was not amused.

He continued, "You're not in-sane. That's not the same as being sane."

And I thought this guy didn't have a sense of fucking humor! But I was still free to go. He reminded me of his suggestions about anger management and a 12 Step Program. And on my way out of his office, he added that Doctor Bitch had wanted to thank me for helping her on Friday. I closed his door behind me, softly singing, "This is my United States of WHATEVER!"

On Monday morning I walked away from this test of character as a free man. But no freer than when I had first arrived ten long fucking days ago.

And right now, as I type this on the train back to dirty old Berlin, for some reason I am reminded of that saying, "In the end you don't remember the words of your enemies, but the silence of your friends."