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crocodile-headed Vein or the cockroach-crowned Artery!
    Gradual improvement. I lose my craving for drugs, and no longer throw fits. But I don't progress as quickly as my doctors anticipated. I keep slipping back into the world of nightmares, losing my grip on reality. I don't talk openly with my nurses and doctors. I don't discuss my fears and pains. Sometimes I babble incoherently and can't interpret the words of those around me. Or I'll stand staring at a tree or bush through one of the institute windows all day long, or not get up in the morning, despite the best rousing efforts of my nurses. I'm fighting them. They don't believe my story, so they can't truly understand me, so they can't really help me. So I fight them. Out of fear and spite.
    Somewhere in the middle of the confusion, relatives arrive. The doctors want me to focus on the world outside this institute. They think the way to do that is to reintroduce me to my family, break down my sense of overwhelming isolation. I think the plan is for the visitors to fuss over me, so that I want to be with them, so I'll then play ball with the doctors when they start in with the questions.
    Aunt Kate's the first. She clutches me tight and weeps. Talks about Mom, Dad, and Gret nonstop, recalling all the good times that she can remember. Begs me to let the doctors help me, to talk with them, so I can get better and go home and live with her. I say nothing, just stare off into space and think about Dad hanging upside down. Aunt Kate leaves less than an hour later, still sobbing.
    More relatives drop in during the following days and weeks, rounded up by the doctors. Aunts, uncles, cousins — both sides of the family tree. Some are old acquaintances. Some I've never seen before. I don't respond to any of them. I can tell they're just like the doctors. They don't believe me.
    Lots of questions from my carers. Why don't I talk to my relatives? Do I like them? Are there others I prefer? Am I afraid of people? How would I feel about leaving here and staying with one of the well-wishers for a while?
    They're trying to ship me out. It's not that they're sick of me — just step three on my path to recovery. Since I won't rally to their calls in here, they hope that a taste of the real world will make me more receptive. (I haven't developed any great insights into the human way of thinking — I know all this because Leah and the other nurses tell me. They say it's good for me to know what they're thinking, what their plans are.)
    I do my best to give them what they want — I'd love if they could cure me — but it's difficult. The relatives remind me of what happened. They can't act naturally around me. They look at me with pitying — sometimes fearful — expressions. But I try. I listen. I respond.
    After much preparation and discussions, I spend a weekend with Uncle Mike and his family. Mike is Mom's younger brother. He has a pretty wife — Rosetta — and three children, two girls and a boy. Gret and I stayed with them a few times in the past, when Mom and Dad were away on vacation.
    They try hard to make me feel welcome. Conor — Mike's son — is ten years old. He shows me his toys and plays computer games with me. He's bright and friendly. Talks me through his comics collection and tells me I can pick out any three issues I like and keep them.
    The girls — Lisa and Laura — are seven and six. Gigglish. Not sure why I'm here or aware of what happened to me. But they're nice. They tell me about school and their friends. They want to know if I have a girlfriend.
    Saturday goes well. I feel Mike's optimism — he thinks this will work, that I'll return to my senses and pick up my life as normal. I try to believe salvation can come that simply, but inside I know I'm deluding myself.
    Sunday. A stroll in the park. Playing with Lisa and Laura on the swings. Pushing them high. Rosetta close by, keeping a watchful eye on me. Mike on the merry-go-round with Conor.
    “Want off!”