X
I am in a position not unlike that of a man whose obituary notice has
appeared prematurely. Few have ever had a better opportunity than I to
test the affection of their relatives and friends. That mine did their
duty and did it willingly is naturally a constant source of
satisfaction to me. Indeed, I believe that this unbroken record of
devotion is one of the factors which eventually made it possible for me
to take up again my duties in the social and business world, with a
comfortable feeling of continuity. I can, indeed, now view my past in
as matter-of-fact a way as do those whose lives have been uniformly
uneventful.
As I have seen scores of patients neglected by their relatives—a
neglect which they resent and often brood upon—my sense of gratitude
is the livelier, and especially so because of the difficulty with which
friendly intercourse with me was maintained during two of the three
years I was ill. Relatives and friends frequently called to see me.
True, these calls were trying for all concerned. I spoke to none, not
even to my mother and father. For, though they all appeared about as
they used to do, I was able to detect some slight difference in look or
gesture or intonation of voice, and this was enough to confirm my
belief that they were impersonators, engaged in a conspiracy, not
merely to entrap me, but to incriminate those whom they impersonated.
It is not strange, then, that I refused to say anything to them, or to
permit them to come near me. To have kissed the woman who was my
mother, but whom I believed to be a federal conspirator, would have
been an act of betrayal. These interviews were much harder for my
relatives and friends than for me. But even for me they were ordeals;
and though I suffered less at these moments than my callers, my sum of
suffering was greater, for I was constantly anticipating these
unwelcome, but eventually beneficial, visitations.
Suppose my relatives and friends had held aloof during this apparently
hopeless period, what to-day would be my feelings toward them? Let
others answer. For over two years I considered all letters forgeries.
Yet the day came when I convinced myself of their genuineness and the
genuineness of the love of those who sent them. Perhaps persons who
have relatives among the more than a quarter of a million patients in
institutions in this country to-day will find some comfort in this
fact. To be on the safe and humane side, let every relative and friend
of persons so afflicted remember the Golden Rule, which has never been
suspended with respect to the insane. Go to see them, treat them
sanely, write to them, keep them informed about the home circle; let
not your devotion flag, nor accept any repulse.
The consensus now was that my condition was unlikely ever to improve,
and the question of my commitment to some institution where incurable
cases could be cared for came up for decision. While it was being
considered, my attendant kept assuring me that it would be unnecessary
to commit me to an institution if I would but show some improvement. So
he repeatedly suggested that I go to New Haven and spend a day at home.
At this time, it will be recalled, I was all but mute, so, being unable
to beguile me into speech, the attendant one morning laid out for my
use a more fashionable shirt than I usually wore, telling me to put it
on if I wished to make the visit. That day it took me an unusually long
time to dress, but in the end I put on the designated garment. Thus did
one part of my brain outwit another.
I simply chose the less of two evils. The greater was to find myself
again committed to an institution. Nothing else would have induced me
to go to New Haven. I did not wish to go. To my best knowledge and
belief, I had no home there, nor did I have any relatives or friends
who would greet me upon my return. How could they, if still free, even
approach me while I was surrounded by detectives? Then, too, I had a
lurking suspicion that my attendant's offer was made in the belief that
I would not dare accept it. By taking him at his word, I knew that I
should at least have an opportunity to test the truth of many of his
statements regarding my old home. Life had become insupportable; and
back of my consent to make this experimental visit was a willingness to
beard the detectives in their own den, regardless of consequences. With
these and many other reflections I started for the train. The events of
the journey which followed are of no moment. We soon reached the New
Haven station; and, as I had expected, no relative or friend was there
to greet us. This apparent indifference seemed to support my suspicion
that my attendant had not told me the truth; but I found little
satisfaction in uncovering his deceit, for the more of a liar I proved
him to be, the worse would be my plight. We walked to the front of the
station and stood there for almost half an hour. The unfortunate, but
perfectly natural, wording of a question caused the delay.
"Well, shall we go home?" my attendant said.
How could I say, "Yes"? I had no home. I feel sure I should finally
have said, "No", had he continued to put the question in that form.
Consciously or unconsciously, however, he altered it. "Shall we go to
30 Trumbull Street?" That was what I had been waiting for. Certainly I
would go to the house designated by that number. I had come to New
Haven to see that house; and I had just a faint hope that its
appearance and the appearance of its occupants might prove convincing.
At home my visit came as a complete surprise. I could not believe that
my relatives—if they were relatives—had not been informed of my
presence in the city, and their words and actions upon my arrival
confirmed my suspicion and extinguished the faint hope I had briefly
cherished. My hosts were simply the same old persecutors with whom I
had already had too much to do. Soon after my arrival, dinner was
served. I sat at my old place at the table, and secretly admired the
skill with which he who asked the blessing imitated the language and
the well-remembered intonation of my father's voice. But alas for the
family!—I imagined my relatives banished and languishing in prison,
and the old home confiscated by the government!
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