I always imagined a psychiatric hospital to be a place of solace. The drugs and shock treatments that go on in there never seemed to hit me. I never imagined that my doctor might be an arse or that I might truly lose myself in a place like that. It always appeared to be a place to go for a rest. Like they would go away to a spa, like in Anna Karenina. Or perhaps how it seems that artists of all sorts may go away for a break- a time to recuperate. Not readjust. It would be a time of idleness when all other worries would melt away on a canvas with watercolors dripping down. A time to sit and write in a journal for hours and to reflect while looking out at the windows. It would be a resort- just like in the Bahamas.
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