My parents were commies, and when I was a child the FBI would come to the door. I think that was where my paranoias originated.
   My dad died in 1966 and we moved. I spent a lot of time packing stuff, and I guess people were talking about me. I thought there were people who would shoot me from the rooftops.
    I was visiting a psychiatrist. She said, “Why don’t you go and check out this hospital.” I said, “Jesus, at least while I’m in there they won’t be able to shoot me.”
    They had me on Thorazine and I developed migraine headaches that would last all day. I left the hospital with the intention of killing myself, but then I got outside and I felt no migraines.
    My apartment is in a very small building and the landlord and manager sort of know that I’m sort of crazy. They treat me as though I’m unaware of things and generally dumb. It bothers me immensely. My income is from social security disability and it’s not much. It’s just depressing that I will have to spend forever in this place.

        
    The nitty gritty stuff that goes on in your life day-to-day—how difficult that can be for somebody who’s out, even for somebody who’s been out for some time. One time I had this enormous temptation to present myself in the emergency room and say, “Take care of me.” I didn’t do that, and I’m very proud of myself.
    My biggest fear is that they’ll call the cops and cart me away. One morning I couldn’t find my glasses, and I was running around the apartment screaming. So the cops were at my door, and I thought, “Oh my God, this is it.” They told me they thought someone was hurting me. “I’m not crazy, I just lost my glasses.” I said it about seventeen thousand times. It’s just that hideous fear because you’ve been there.