CHAPTER 72

2025-08-01

Every time I was hospitalized for treatment, I maintained a positive attitude, hoping for improvement, even recovery, and a return to a normal life. My admission to the psychiatric hospital was not my own choice, and I believed it was a family conspiracy to kick me out, so I resisted intensely. At that time, the psychiatric ward felt more like a prison.

Although I resisted admission, I knew it was inevitable, so I ultimately submitted. This was the result of my childhood aspiration to be a good student.

I sat idle in the partitioned ward of the emergency room, waiting until my wife and younger son left. I lamented my fate, wondering why I had ended up like this. I had worked my whole life for fame, but now my reputation was shattered. Being treated as a lunatic for helping others—where was my pride? At the time, I was completely detached from reality and delusional. I believed that I might stay here for many months. My family would definitely not come, and my future was uncertain.

But I didn't wait much longer. The medical staff led me on foot to the ward for acutely ill male patients. The road was gloomy, and upon arrival, the door was locked and had to be opened by a staff member inside. Inside, on the left was a closed workroom, also locked. On the right there were seven or eight partitioned wards lined up in a row.

Before I was assigned to the partitioned ward, a tall and huge black female receptionist, through the glass window of the counter, instructed me to hand over all my belongings to the hospital for safekeeping. Since I couldn't bring my cell phone, I needed to write down important phone numbers for contacting the outside world. The old landline telephone was hanging on the side of the door. Frantically, I borrowed a piece of paper from the receptionist and wrote down about ten numbers. I felt helpless and isolated from the outside world.

I was assigned a bed near the door. Most of the beds were already occupied by patients. Because the partitioning curtains were about two feet off the ground, all I could see were feet moving around the beds or hanging down from them. I called my senior and told her I was admitted to the hospital (though I actually felt like I was incarcerated). I can't remember if I informed anyone else.

At the time, I was utterly terrified. From a macroscopic perspective, I had lost all faith in the world. From a microscopic perspective, this place was a dangerous place. The entire ward was filled with mentally ill patients (including myself), and people kept coming in and out from behind the curtains. Most of them were foreigners, and most of them looked haggard. My biggest worry was encountering a large and aggressive patient. If he lost control and got up to attack me after I fell asleep, how could I, a small man in my late sixties, resist? Looking back, although I had suicidal thoughts during the attack, I instinctively worried about my own safety and didn't just lie down and let fate take its course.

My physical health was in trouble at the time. I had been taking the "wrong" medication prescribed by my family doctor for over two months. The obvious side effects were extreme dryness in my mouth, a severe lack of fluid production, and difficulty swallowing. Furthermore, my intestinal mobility had slowed, and I was dehydrated, making everything difficult to eat and drink.

Later, while the medical team was switching me to a new medication, I had to take medications with conflicting side effects: one caused constipation, one caused diarrhea, one promoted hair growth, and one caused hair loss. It sounds a bit cartoonish, but you'll only understand the meaning of it if you've experienced it.