One patient told me he had traveled to France, England, Germany, all of Europe. He also raised Michael Jordan. He demanded credit for showing Michael Jordan how to really play basketball. He was the oldest man on the face of the planet.
Yes, John T. was larger than life, a man who had been everywhere, met everyone, seen everything, and somehow managed to get himself admitted to Building 10, a mental institution, along the way. Tall and bulky, John T.'s size alone intimidated me from the very beginning. None of the others simply towered over me like John T. Restraining this man would've been fucking impossible, at least for a thin 20-year-old non-athlete like myself. During group therapy, I feared he'd approach me from behind, maybe stand in front of the doorway so I couldn't escape.
Hold me hostage.
Strangle me.
Worse, take advantage of me. And I don't mean hustling me in a game of pool.
But, much to my surprise, John T. was gentle, likable. He was also severely delusional. The look on his face as he spoke of his past and his accomplishments over the years was so serious that I had to keep myself from cracking a smile. He was able to weave a story into an epic saga. I doubt he even knew what he was saying, but I managed to nod along, all laughter internalized until I was with Laura or on the phone relaying his stories to my girlfriend or my family. The last I saw of him was the Friday before he was discarded to Forensics (on the Monday that followed) because space was needed in Building 10 for patients with a "better" prognosis than John T.
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