"We are not about to desert you. But you have to understand that you *are* mentally ill. All along, you thought that this was some kind of game. You did not take my warnings about the Forces seriously. You opened up your consciousness to them, and now you are paying the price."
I nodded again.
"Of course, there is still hope. But you've got to stop fighting me. You've got to act *now*." He instructed me to take the drug. I had no premonition as I swallowed the Stelazine that Atmananda would later call me his "chemical experiment."
In the days that followed, Atmananda seemed to enjoy his assumed role as psychiatrist and nurse. He knocked on my door several times a day and, in a cheery voice, announced, "Hi, kid—reality check. How do you feel?"
"Dizzy," I replied. I smiled. I was enjoying Atmananda's attention and kind treatment. "I feel pretty relaxed."
"Good," he said. "Now tell me about your thoughts."
I did.
He seemed pleased that I was finding it difficult to concentrate, that my thoughts had a fuzzy, dream-like quality to them, and that my self-analyzing, authority-questioning nature had submerged beyond my control.
"You should feel good about yourself," he said pleasantly. "You are making some definite progress."