Cynara's Note #39 1972.

Breakfast brought its usual sameness, sticky porridge, limp buttered toast and stewed tea. Lucy was in an argument with the plump woman who came last week, foul language and nails out to scratch, but two nurses intervened and Lucy was taken away to the other smaller lounge. I don’t know what set her off, but she certainly goes off when she does, but when she’s calm she’s quite loving. I had an appointment with the shrink this morning. I wasn’t in the mood for his old Freudian nonsense, that constant questioning, so thought of other things, listened half-heartedly, answered with whatever came into my head. He has prescribed me other medication, maybe more ECTs. Vincent was over by the window all the time gazing at the shrink making faces, which I struggled not to laugh at. The shrink never saw Van Gogh making faces. Dinner was stewed something or other and thick custard over apple crumble.  Alun showed me some drawings he has done while in the locked ward; they are quite good in a modern art kind of way, especially the cat with two heads, coloured in with red crayon. In the evening I looked out the window at the dull dark evening sky, smoking a cigarette, the nurse Blue gave me. Out there was the insane world pretending it was sane, while in here, us deemed the insane ones, look out with sanity and pity.