he would not say, “I need help,” but he would indicate it by an extravagant act, such as flinging a cushion or an ashtray to the floor in his psychiatrist’s office (he had been seeing one since his initial psychosis). This meant, and was understood to mean, “I’m getting out of control—take me into hospital.” At other times, he gave no warning but would get into a violently agitated, shouting, stamping, hallucinated state—on one occasion, he hurled my mother’s beautiful old grandfather clock against a wall—and at such times my parents and I would be terrified of him. Terrified, and deeply
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