Delusions of persecution—­which include “delusions of self-reference”—­though a source of annoyance while I was in an inactive state, annoyed and distressed me even more when I began to move about and was obliged to associate with other patients.  To my mind, not only were the doctors and attendants detectives; each patient was a detective and the whole institution was a part of the Third Degree.  Scarcely any remark was made in my presence that I could not twist into a cleverly veiled reference to myself.  In each person I could see a resemblance to persons I had known, or to the principals or victims of the crimes with which I imagined myself charged.  I refused to read; for to read veiled charges and fail to assert my innocence was to incriminate both myself and others.  But I looked with longing glances upon all printed matter and, as my curiosity was continually piqued, this enforced abstinence grew to be well-nigh intolerable.

It became again necessary to the family purse that every possible saving be made.  Accordingly, I was transferred from the main building, where I had a private room and a special attendant, to a ward where I was to mingle, under an aggregate sort of supervision, with fifteen or twenty other patients.  Here I had no special attendant by day, though one slept in my room at night.

Of this ward I had heard alarming reports—­and these from the lips of several attendants.  I was, therefore, greatly disturbed at the proposed change.  But, the transfer once accomplished, after a few days I really liked my new quarters better than the old.  During the entire time I remained at the sanatorium I was more alert mentally than I gave evidence of being.  But not until after my removal to this ward, where I was left alone for hours every day, did I dare to show my alertness.  Here I even went so far on one occasion as to joke with the attendant in charge.  He had been trying to persuade me to take a bath.  I refused, mainly because I did not like the looks of the bath room, which, with its cement floor and central drain, resembled the room in which vehicles are washed in a modern stable.  After all else had failed, the attendant tried the role of sympathizer.

“Now I know just how you feel,” he said, “I can put myself in your place.”

“Well, if you can, do it and take the bath yourself,” was my retort.

The remark is brilliant by contrast with the dismal source from which it escaped.  “Escaped” is the word; for the fear that I should hasten my trial by exhibiting too great a gain in health, mental or physical, was already upon me; and it controlled much of my conduct during the succeeding months of depression.