I suspect when it comes to matters of the mind we are all laypersons. 

I do not possess the expertise to explain to you what mental illness is and how it can be accurately diagnosed. I cannot explain to you what mental illness is or how it can be successfully treated, medically or otherwise.

I do not know that mental illness exists. . . I wonder why psychiatrists have so much power over the vulnerable individuals that they supposedly serve.

I believe madness exists.

I was a lunatic not so long ago, and it is possible I still am. Even the deluded ‘sectioned’ maniac cannabis puffer that I was, knew. Eventually. After it was too late.

 

Matters of mind.

“A few evenings after Christmas day, A.D. 2016:

I knew.

Within one hour of being part of the general population of a locked hospital ward, I knew that madness was real.

The first paranoid madman I talked to, took me aside, away from view of other inmates.

He informed me that he was a psychic ninja, my mentor and guide.

He focused my attention towards a sweaty greasy man, wearing a long winter coat, in the overheated dining/recreation room.

I was told the sweaty greasy man was concealing a knife and the psychic ninja also insisted I would be a dead man before morning if I didn’t follow his martial instructions exactly.

My mentor showed me how to effectively attack the knife-wielding psychopath before the psychopath attacked me first.

I proceeded to not take the psychic ninja’s advice.

Petrified, I was hiding, almost uncontrollably shaking, in my sleeping quarter, in a room with 3 other beds.

(I guess they are called sleeping quarters for a reason).

 

I pulled myself together and braved the elements.

I watched the knife-wielding psycho playing table tennis, looking at me menacingly out of the corner of his evil left eye.

Eventually, it was smoke time.

Smoke time was for 10-15 minutes every hour, on the hour, until the night staff arrived and ushered us to bed, with biscuits and squash, not long after our nightly ‘medications’.

I was really scared during my first smoke time.

I sat for about 5 minutes, alone in the recreation room before making my way to the fag butt-infested yard.

The knife-wielding psycho was staring at me with a murderous smile.

I took a large deep drag from my roll-up, and I gathered every atom of insanity that my lungs could find and blew a fog of madness into the darkest of skies, high above the peachy artificial light of the yard.

Then, for a few minutes that felt like a few dozen, I was the sanest man on earth.

I assessed the situation and observed the psychic ninja pacing up and down, stopping, doing an impression of a badly trained middle-aged ‘karate kid’ with a ponytail, having a deep conversation with his ancient marijuana spirit guide I presume. He would growl and threaten anybody that came within six feet of him.

The knife-wielding psycho was not staring at me at all, he was just looking in my direction, trying to get my attention with a friendly, welcoming smile. 

I was a few moments away from making my first friend. He showed me the ropes, along with a young ginger nut, an attempted self-murderer with a pair of NHS-issue crutches and very heavily bandaged legs.