It is as deep as the ocean. It draws you in like a silent whirlpool, holds you tight and does not allow you to go out into the normal world. It holds on with memories, especially those of past failures. Its walls are as slippery as ice or wet glass or shattered snow. It takes away the will to live, it keeps you in bed for hours or even days and nights. It robs you of your ability to work ... and at the bottom lurk thoughts of death... to fall asleep and never wake up again, to swallow a lot of pills and end it all. And yet the fear of death and the fear that it could fail keep me going. Also a feeling of empathy towards the Family and the people who would find me. It probably wouldn't be a pleasant sight.

Antidepressants don't help, Sulpiride is overly sedating and Anafranil first gently improves my mood , then induces feelings of fatigue and drowsiness. Alcohol, cigarettes and sports nutrition do not help either. A person grasps at various ways and then breaks down disappointed.

Now it is the end of October, winter is coming, the evenings and nights are getting longer. This is not good for a tired psyche. And those four walls with no one to talk to. All this plunges the patient deeper and deeper. The weak psyche needs a miracle to break out of this vicious circle. And sometimes the miracle does not want to come, it makes you wait too long for it and this crisis takes away your faith in God, in his abilities... Sometimes depression turns into mania or psychosis and then the will to live returns, but recently I have also had a lot of oscillation of thoughts around violent death, which I may have regarded as a liberation from tension and danger. And now I was thinking of her as a quiet escape from life, from financial problems, problems at work, from loneliness.

I regret that my faith in God had weakened, even though in the spring I wrote ALLHT AKBAR on almost every wall of my flat. Later, however, came hospitalisation and the painful "bringing down to earth from these departures", as the orderly put it.

I was forced to make a resume which, by the standards of the so-called normal world, did not turn out well: loss of job, embarrassment in front of many people, debts, conflict with my parents, addiction to smoking cigarettes. And this baggage of experiences that are impossible to describe. Anything I could write would be too weak. It has to be lived. So perhaps I write for people like me who cannot find their way in the normal world. But also for the normal ones to show more patience, understanding and tolerance for the nutters. You really don't know where it comes from, and it can happen to anyone. Madness follows its own paths, incomprehensible to anyone, even the one possessed by it. Often after "pacification", or hospitalisation, I have regretted not remembering what I was thinking and sometimes what I was doing during the sick excitement. Primarily the medication works this way, but I also noticed the occurrence of 'islands of oblivion' in myself. Perhaps the psyche in this way removes thoughts and ideas that made me unable to sleep and function normally.

For example, during my last insanity I had persecutory delusions. It seemed to me that the neighbours in the block opposite were watching me, giving me signs and playing 'Big Brother'. I thought I was bugged in my flat and in many places: the intercom, the radio, the lights, the electric cooker. I ripped out the intercom, took the radio-magnetophone and cassettes down to the cellar, the cable from the cooker I wanted to rip out of the wall. I thought that those who control me were giving me signs by means of the diodes from the cooker. Their distinctive shape reminded me of a film about Godzilla and spawning eggs. At first I thought the cooker was used to produce a monster, then it seemed to me that THE MONSTER - IS ME.

And indeed, if I used what I carried with me, a hammer, knife or crowbar, I would become a monster. Fortunately, this did not happen. The brakes worked, and then I was caught against my will - in hospital. Admittedly, I signed a consent for treatment, but under pressure - from my father and the person admitting me. Anyway, I had no choice - the doctor had written a referral and I no longer had the means to live independently, especially financially. I was convinced that there was cocaine in coffee and that it could be extracted by roasting the grounds. So I roasted the grounds and inhaled the fumes and thought I was high. I treated the cooker like a chemistry lab - I hoped it would help me produce a Molotov cocktail. I thought I'd come up with it myself, or that I'd find a recipe somewhere and just concoct this explosive for myself. I thought there would be a war and that I would be the soldier in it, perhaps a suicide bomber. I tried to practice marching in my glans and during one of the jumps I almost twisted my ankle. I started smoking cigarettes because I thought they would give me strength and I thought there was marijuana in the Camels. I suspected that there were KGB agents in one of the escort agencies, that there was cocaine in the coffee and LSD in the lemon. I used to put my urine in bottles and jars for evidence, but somehow I never had the money for tests. Anyway, if they showed nothing, I would probably conclude that I had taken something undetectable. I used to set jars and bottles of urine on the balcony on tiles like a chessboard, but nothing came out of this game. I dressed a black chair in a black waistcoat and "connected" it to a cable, wanting to show that an electric chair was prepared for Al Capone. I feared that I was going to die a violent death, perhaps soon, and that I had to decide which side I was on: white, brown, blue or black. White meant martyrs and the Church, brown meant the military, blue meant the police and black meant the Mafia. My name is Paul, so I thought I would die under the sword. I took every pain in my spine, which I often had in my sacro-lumbar region, as a warning and a threat from Satan. It was supposed to mean that I would die by the sword if I took the path of St Paul. If I chose brown, I would die from an explosion, if blue, the mob would kill me, if black, the police would put me in jail. There seemed to be no way out of the situation. And so bad, and so bad. One day, in a frenzy, I started throwing all the blue stuff out of my flat, because I started to hate the blue people for playing with me. I considered it all a police provocation and myself an ultratester. I thought they wanted to see how much a person could stand. I smashed a blue dish dryer and a bowl with a hammer with fury and joy. I found that blacks are iron and steel , and that they are tougher than the soft as plastic blues. I think in that moment I was black and destroying these objects gave me a strange satisfaction. Somewhere in my subconscious, the words were circulating that there is an instinct to destroy and an instinct to create in human beings. Today, I regret destroying these objects, because someone had to pay for them, but at that moment I didn't think about it, obsessed by the 'mob war'. Nothing mattered, only madness. As a white, for example, I went to the brothel and handed the barmaid an envelope with a sheet of St Paul's Hymn of Love. As a blue, I wrote down registration numbers, also on my mobile phone, but I never went to the police with them. I thought the Eiffel 65 song 'I'm Blue'. "I'm Blue" was a police song or a song about the cocaine blues. I had the impression that my whole life had been programmed by hostile and fighting forces: Church, commune, police , mafia. All sorts of contradictory thoughts and ideas arose in my head and some of them I implemented. Everything had a symbolic meaning - I even counted the steps on the stairs and related them to the Ten Commandments. When I looked in the mirror, I thought Satan was making eyes at me. I suspected that all my tapes had been slipped to me by various agents: Vatican, American, Arab. I even suspected my friend and Parents of being linked to various groups. Afferent thinking flourished. And what it led me to. To social degradation. To pauperisation. To hospitalisation. To nicotinism. To depression. Perhaps I am only now fully realising what has happened. Perhaps I would like to undo those moments, but, what is done cannot be undone.(What is done cannot be undone).

The time has come to learn a lesson. My mental disorders have gotten me nowhere, but treating them solely with drugs is also a road to nowhere. After neuroleptics I feel terrible - my muscles ache, my head hurts, I don't want anything and I feel generally weak. Without them, on the other hand, I suffer from insomnia and anxiety. But perhaps it is existential anxiety. Perhaps I don't really know who I am and am searching for my own identity. Perhaps my outbursts of psychosis are just the cries of a wounded ego that cannot adjust to neurotic social norms. Maybe being an English teacher isn't enough for me, maybe I would like to be someone else...I've read so much that it's messed up my head and I don't know who I am anymore. I would like to be a writer, but will I have enough topics and inspiration? Can I write well, in depth and with all the knowledge of things, about something other than my own life? Will I find publishers willing to publish what I have written? And will I find loyal readers willing to buy my books?