This three-page story is the first one in the new book that I’m drawing/writing on, with the working titleĀ My Schizoaffective Daze. It’s about a time roughly twenty years ago when I was first becoming known to the mental health services. I was very distrustful of them, believing that if they found out what was really wrong with me, they would lock me up in a home. And indeed it was only ten or so years since that had been the fate of thousands of people with mental illness all over the country. Probably the only reform of Margaret Thatcher that I approve of was the closing of the large mental hospitals, which were still fresh in the memory of the patients I met when I first entered an acute ward in 1996. Anyway it took about five years before I admitted to a doctor (or anyone) that I was hearing voices. This story is set in the very scary days before I did.