Summer! People in the hospital were talking about what a hot day it was outside. It was only late spring, but already the mercury was climbing.
There was a whole group of us sitting in a circle in the therapy room of Cambridge Psychiatric Hospital, poring over our writings. Colleen, the nurse in charge waited patiently while we struggled with our problems on paper. The air was electric with the sound of rustling paper, scratching biros and the sighs of the patients.
I hunched over my note pad, pen poised.
They say that summer is knocking at the door, and I will run when summer comes, I wrote.
After a very nasty episode when I thought I was dead, I now realized I was still alive, and that it was November, l978. That I wasn’t in some underground cavern of hell where the wallpaper pattern peeled off the walls to invade one’s mind, or where you had no body, but drifted through the air uncoordinated, with nowhere to go and no-one to relate to.
Yes! I was alive at the age of thirty-six. Perhaps there were many more years to go before death – the real death, overtook me. Summer, and Christmas were mine after all. I must get completely better from my nervous mental illness and run, run, run!