XXVII
My failure to force the Governor to investigate conditions at the State
Hospital convinced me that I could not hope to prosecute my reforms
until I should regain my liberty and re-establish myself in my old
world. I therefore quitted the role of reformer-militant; and, but for
an occasional outburst of righteous indignation at some flagrant abuse
which obtruded itself upon my notice, my demeanor was that of one quite
content with his lot in life.
I was indeed content—I was happy. Knowing that I should soon regain my
freedom, I found it easy to forgive—taking great pains not to
forget—any injustice which had been done me. Liberty is sweet, even to
one whose appreciation of it has never been augmented by its temporary
loss. The pleasurable emotions which my impending liberation aroused
within me served to soften my speech and render me more tractable. This
change the assistant physician was not slow to note, though he was
rather slow in placing in me the degree of confidence which I felt I
deserved. So justifiable, however, was his suspicion that even at the
time I forgave him for it. I had on so many prior occasions "played
possum" that the doctor naturally attributed complex and unfathomable
motives to my most innocent acts. For a long time he seemed to think
that I was trying to capture his confidence, win the privilege of an
unlimited parole, and so effect my escape. Doubtless he had not
forgotten the several plans for escape which I had dallied with and
bragged about while in the violent ward.
Though I was granted considerable liberty during the months of April,
May, and June, 1903, not until July did I enjoy a so-called unlimited
parole which enabled me to walk about the neighboring city unattended.
My privileges were granted so gradually that these first tastes of
regained freedom, though delightful, were not so thrilling as one might
imagine. I took everything as a matter of course, and, except when I
deliberately analyzed my feelings, was scarcely conscious of my former
deprivations.
This power to forget the past—or recall it only at will—has
contributed much to my happiness. Some of those who have suffered
experiences such as mine are prone to brood upon them, and I cannot but
attribute my happy immunity from unpleasant memories to the fact that I
have viewed my own case much as a physician might view that of a
patient. My past is a thing apart. I can examine this or that phase of
it in the clarifying and comforting light of reason, under a memory
rendered somewhat microscopic. And I am further compensated by the
belief that I have a distinct mission in life—a chance for usefulness
that might never have been mine had I enjoyed unbroken health and
uninterrupted liberty.
The last few months of my life in the hospital were much alike, save
that each succeeding one brought with it an increased amount of
liberty. My hours now passed pleasantly. Time did not drag, for I was
engaged upon some enterprise every minute. I would draw, read, write,
or talk. If any feeling was dominant, it was my feeling for art; and I
read with avidity books on the technique of that subject. Strange as it
may seem, however, the moment I again found myself in the world of
business my desire to become an artist died almost as suddenly as it
had been born. Though my artistic ambition was clearly an outgrowth of
my abnormal condition, and languished when normality asserted itself, I
am inclined to believe I should even now take a lively interest in the
study of art if I were so situated as to be deprived of a free choice
of my activities. The use of words later enthralled me because so
eminently suited to my purposes.
During the summer of 1903, friends and relatives often called to see
me. The talks we had were of great and lasting benefit to me. Though I
had rid myself of my more extravagant and impossible delusions of
grandeur—flying-machines and the like—I still discussed with intense
earnestness other schemes, which, though allied to delusions of
grandeur, were, in truth, still more closely allied to sanity itself.
My talk was of that high, but perhaps suspicious type in which
Imagination overrules Common Sense. Lingering delusions, as it were,
made great projects seem easy. That they were at least feasible under
certain conditions, my mentors admitted. Only I was in an abnormal
hurry to produce results. Work that I later realized could not be
accomplished in less than five or ten years, if, indeed, in a lifetime,
I then believed could be accomplished in a year or two, and by me
single-handed. Had I had none but mentally unbalanced people to talk
with, I might have continued to cherish a distorted perspective. It was
the unanimity of sane opinions that helped me to correct my own views;
and I am confident that each talk with relatives and friends hastened
my return to normality.
Though I was not discharged from the State Hospital until September
10th, 1903, during the preceding month I visited my home several times,
once for three days. These trips were not only interesting, but
steadying in effect. I willingly returned to the hospital when my
parole expired. Though several friends expressed surprise at this
willingness to enter again an institution where I had experienced so
many hardships, to me my temporary return was not in the least irksome.
As I had penetrated and conquered the mysteries of that dark side of
life, it no longer held any terrors for me. Nor does it to this day. I
can contemplate the future with a greater degree of complacency than
can some of those whose lot in life has been uniformly fortunate. In
fact, I said at that time that, should my condition ever demand it, I
would again enter a hospital for the insane, quite as willingly as the
average person now enters a hospital for the treatment of bodily
ailments.
It was in this complacent and confident mood, and without any sharp
line of transition, that I again began life in my old world of
companionship and of business.
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