At dawn, I maneuvered my Porsche through thick hail, on a curvy mountain road—I collided head-on with a Cadillac on my side of the blacktop--my demise was imminent.
Two weeks afterward I awakened in a psycho-ward in San Mateo County General where three Nazi therapists controlled the quarter. They were beastly at times and wackier than their patients. I was their new recruit.
Cracked up with broken ribs, punctured lungs, quartered spine, smashed knee and critical life-threatening concussion, I had to surrender to the therapists demands to receive necessary healing treatments. They didn’t care about my weakened condition, my state gave them fodder to verbally antagonize and chock themselves by criticizing anyone who questioned them.
I survived my injuries; surviving ostracism from the therapists was voluminously difficult, causing paranoia, schizophrenia and social-disintegration. So, most of the patients suffered a form of mental disability, and after the therapists, by way of group rehabilitations, the patients seemed to suffer more delusions, disorganized speech patterns, hallucinations and dissociative identity disorders. I was just one more jerk in a group of patients suffering with anxiety disorders via a simple auto accident.
My condition summoned extraordinary measures on my part to apply my educational neuropsychological rehabilitation skills, thus exposing the dysfunctional therapists’ techniques to authorities that could help establish measurable order and discipline in the department. Until that happened my life was Topsy-Turvy in a world of neurocognitive deficits.
Read KISSING FREUD to laugh and cry, following my exploits in an upside down twisted environment. You should become a better person because of KISSING FREUD.