So thumbing my nose at God, hadn't worked. I had burnt my bible thinking my blasphemous act - and all my recent wrongful behaviors - would cause God to do away with me, a reliable method for killing myself I thought. But I was still alive. Not only that, in some ways I felt more at peace than I had in several years. But I was confused. Very confused and desperate to figure out what had happened to me. Why hadn't I been punished? What was wrong?
Over a period of a few troubled weeks, I began to consider some new possibilities. Maybe there was a God and maybe this God spirit was not vengeful? Maybe God was not against me but on my side. Considering this, I began to explore the possibility that I needed help. I needed to find a way to free myself not of God or of my life but of a path of wrongful thinking. If God was on my side, trying to help me discover who I really was, maybe it was my job now to reach out to others.
On May 14th, I reached out to the San Francisco police. Over the phone, they directed me to a drug rehab clinic. I walked blocks and blocks and upon arrival but before I walked in I realized it was not where I needed to be. Something else was my problem. By this time I was seeing space ships and fearing I was soon to be captured. When I looked up, stars were out of place and feeling lost.
Not knowing where to turn, I called the police again. Late that evening, under their supervision and while screaming madly at a frightening world, I arrived at the sixteenth floor of St. Francis Hospital, the psychiatric ward. I was at the bottom of a dark and scary stair case, as crazy as a March hare.
To be continued ...