I’M NOT CRAZY

Dear Mom,

Hi, I’m writing you from Bellevue’s psychiatric ward. The police and a shrink brought me here last night. They say that I am a certifiable nut ball, a loony toon, and a head case. Confused! Let me explain.

A couple of months ago, John invited me to an art show in New York. I really didn’t want to travel to New York for this art show, but he was rather persistent, as well as annoying. So, after a couple of weeks of his constant nagging, I gave in and accompanied John and six other people to the museum, a little public joint called P.S. 1 in Long Island City. The museum was pretty interesting. It showed a lot of different types of art. The exhibits were both enlightening and different, compared to the art I’m used to seeing.

As a little joke originated with John, they blindfolded me and led me to an exhibit called " Time-less (Cell)." So I wouldn’t be alone in this game of theirs, they blindfolded Steve and Tony. Now, they all knew what I went through back home as a child; the concentration camps I was imprisoned in, the torture I endured in these camps, the unclean conditions and diseases we contracted from those camps. All these thoughts are still very heavy in my mind. I think that you’ll agree, there are some things that you NEVER FORGET, and this was one of them. They felt that because it happened so long ago, I should be over these things. But, when I asked Steve, who went through the same things I went through, he said that I was a better man than he is. Which now brings me to why I am in the crazy house.

Once in the room, I noticed that it was empty. No one was there except the friends I accompanied to the museum and a room attendant. John mentioned that they were offering $150.00 to whomever entered this tall box in the center of the room. Now mom, you know I wasn’t turning this down. One hundred and fifty dollars to stand in a box, "sure", I said. The rules were simple; I had to stay in the room for fifteen minutes to claim the money. Anything short of this time is considered incomplete. I agreed to the conditions and proceeded to enter the room. I figured that I would call some one on my cell phone; check the weather and sports scores on my pager while in the cell. Easy money, anyone can do this, I thought. As I walked around the room to the door, I began thinking about what I’m going to spend the money on. The attendant opened a door locked with a pad lock. I began to get really nervous, but didn’t immediately understand why. As I entered the room, I noticed how small it was and thanked God that I wasn’t claustrophobic. All of a sudden, I began sweating profusely. Two minutes later, I just zoned out. I didn’t see four white walls, I saw people suffering from the Ebola virus. I saw people being killed, some in front the slave masters for sheer enjoyment. I saw the day they yanked us out of our home, me at the raw age of eleven. I began to cry. My tears weren’t tears of hate, they were tears of confusion and pain. I wondered why John would do this to me. He knew that this was a painful period in my life. With all these memories flooding my mind, I began having problems breathing. I began to hyperventilate. When my fifteen minutes were up, they opened the door to find me lying on my stomach. When John bent down to pick me up, I lashed out at him with my box-cutter. The expression on my face wasn’t mine; it belonged to someone else. Steve tried earnestly to stop me, even received 22 stitches for his effort. Nothing they did brought me back to reality.

That is why I’m here, locked in another small room. This time the room is padded. They took my shoes, my belt and even my chewing gum. They have me on constant watch, to make sure I don’t have a stroke. They need you to come identify me because you’re my immediate family. That’s the only reason you even received this letter. Please help me. Tell them I’m not crazy.