Waaah...

my older sister cried even harder.

I suddenly realized that any defense was useless, because most people believe that truly mentally ill patients are not aware that they are mentally ill.

Under the authority of the doctors, even if I screamed myself hoarse or smashed my head against the wall, I couldn't prove I was normal; in fact, they would just believe my condition was far more severe.

When I was very young, I witnessed a story like this.

The female protagonist was a virtuous and capable woman who fell in love at first sight with the male protagonist when they were young, and they married and had a child.

After marriage, she managed the household diligently, and their business grew bigger and bigger.

The male protagonist worked at a candy factory, and his career didn't fare as well as hers.

What was worse, when their child was three, he developed a gambling addiction.

The money was controlled by the wife, so he used his own wages to gamble.

But gamblers almost always lose; once his salary was gone, he would try every means to swindle money from the family.

One time, the husband, with empty pockets, went to the place where his wife conducted business to find her.

Coincidentally, she had to go out on an errand and asked him to watch the shop.

The husband seized the moment his wife left, pried open the cash box, and took every last cent of the day’s earnings.

This event plunged the wife into deep despair.

As the saying goes, you can guard against thieves day and night, but it's hard to guard against a thief in your own home.

Who could rest easy spending a lifetime with a thief and a gambler? So, the wife left with the child.

From the day they departed, the husband never left the house.

Sometimes, people could see him on the balcony hanging laundry, but every piece was tiny—nothing belonging to an adult, only the small clothes the child wore when he was little.

After some time, the husband’s mother came to visit him, and it took half an hour of knocking before he opened the door.

Five minutes later, she emerged, weeping, saying her son was useless; he soiled himself everywhere and didn't even recognize who she was.

A few days later, an ambulance arrived at the house where my sister and I lived.

Four or five burly men in white coats stepped out, one of them holding a length of rope.

At the husband’s doorstep, his mother knocked again, for a long time.

The door had barely opened a crack when the men burst in, quickly tying him up.

He yelled, "Let me go, I'm not crazy," but it was no use.

They wrapped him in a white coat, carried him to the vehicle, and drove away.

We never saw that man again after that.

When it was my turn, everything was quite normal.

Only one ambulance came.

My sister and I got in together—no burly men, no ropes.

My sister told me the treatment might last two or three months, and as soon as the doctor said I could be discharged, she would get me out immediately.

I once read a report: if a normal person is mistaken for a psychiatric patient and sent to an asylum, the wisest course of action is compliance.

Only through cooperation and submission can one get out of that horrible place the fastest.

Those who try desperately to prove they are normal are often deemed severely ill by the doctors; the stronger their desire to leave and the more intense their behavior, the longer they end up staying inside.

Well, when in Rome, do as the Romans do.

Things have reached this point; there’s no use fighting it now.

Although I still don't fully understand what happened that afternoon, I am certain my mind is clear, and my consciousness is sound.