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As an individual who has been diagnosed as having, among other "mental illnesses," schizophrenia, manic-depression and schizo-affective disorders, I know all too well the hurt and negation such a pernicious belief can have in the day-to-day life of a psychiatrically labeled person.

"Do you know what it's like to be treated as a madman?" I shouted at my father. "Do you know what it's like to be greeted with a baseball bat when you visit your own family? I'm not the monster from the black lagoon, I'm your son!"

"What do you want from me," Dad responded in his world-weary exasperation. "No matter how nice one of our visits start, it ends up with you making my life a living hell. I have enough problems. You're over 30 years old. Leave me alone."

"Leave you alone," I answered back, my voice rising in anger and intensity. "Leave you alone like you left me alone all those times you committed me to that living hell-hole called Camarillo? I'm your son. I haven't hurt anybody! Give me some of the time and consideration you show strangers you sell refrigerators to at May Company. So you find me trying? Then why don't you try? Answer me! Have I ever physically hurt anybody?"

My father sat back in his chair stunned by my verbal onslaught. I admit it was not a new experience for him. In fact, I know this kind of rage was the primary reason for my commitments and psychiatric branding as "violent mental male." Still, I would not be denied.

I moved toward my father's chair with the fever of a TV prosecuting attorney intent on an answer. The hurt and shame of being officially labeled as "dangerous mental patient" overshadowed my relationship with my family. It meant that I was no longer accorded the dignity of being their son and brother. It was like being excluded from the human race, relegated to the pariah status of "psycho movies" and headlines of "Mental Patient Attacks." What's more, I was enraged that my father could send me to institutions where he could not even hold the pretense that they were therapeutic, where verbal and physical abuse were dished out with the same regularity as thorazine cocktails. He already knew that this was especially so for "uppity nuts" such as myself. I personally found nothing therapeutic about being drugged into zombie-land.

"Well," I demanded once more, "did I ever hurt anyone? Where are all the bodies." I mockingly inquired breaking into a sinister Peter Lorre impression.

"Look at you," my father retorted. "Do you call yourself normal with all your out-of-control ranting and ravings? Whatever happened to the boy I was so proud of, the honor student, the tennis player, the helpful mensch?"

"I'm out of control! I'm beyond control. If you're really that ashamed of me, just make a five foot, 10-inch cardboard cut-out of me, hang my magna cum laude degree and varsity letter around my neck and when anyone asks about me, just take me out of the closet and say, 'Here's Ronnie! I just know you'll like him.'"

"Stop already!"

"First, just answer me! Have I ever hurt anybody? What's so hard about saying that simple truth to me?"

My father relented. "Ok, ok, we both know you never hurt anybody physically. So what do you want from me? What do you want from my life?"

"I want a statement, a notarized statement."

We went to the bank and my father signed the statement: "My son, Ronald Luis Schraiber, despite official documents to the contrary, has never employed actual physical or assaultive behavior toward his immediate family members. Moreover, I am aware that my son's actions, despite legal accusations, have never led to the hospitalization of anyone for even a minor injury." It was dated and notarized on October 7, 1982.

Let me give you an example of my "violent" behavior. As was my custom, I would periodically come down from Mendocino County to see my family. I had left L.A. and all its urban alienation and bad memories for the rural quietude of Mendocino. Some of my friends, both in and out of the patients' rights movement, told me I should forget seeing my family. In essence, they said, whether you're right or wrong, the simple facts are (1) you don't get along, (2) they are frightened of you, (3) you'll never be accepted the way you are, (4) this will enrage you, and (5) because of all of the above you could end up being committed again! Nevertheless, it was my family, and such advice could reach my head, but never my heart.

I called up my family from a Four Seasons restaurant to tell them that I was in town and would like to see them. Even though I knew the potential for conflict, our visits usually started on a somewhat conciliatory note. True to form, my father said he would pick me up, but I could tell I was not the long lost relative he was dying to see. As the car approached, I was happy to see that my two younger brothers were in the car. Alan was 10 years younger than me and Robbie was 13 years younger. My joy at the prospective family reunion, however, was soon shattered. I could see that my youngest brother, Robbie, was concealing a baseball bat behind him. I didn't have to be paranoid to know that bat was designed as a protective and aggressive instrument against me, the assumed wild man who would do God-knows-what.

When I saw that bat I became furious. How dare they even think I would want to hurt them? How dare they really be frightened of me? I demanded that my father take the bat away from Robbie and put it in the trunk. My father refused. I could see in his eyes he was scared. That was more than enough for me. I cannot describe the hurt I felt, knowing why that bat was there. And my father's refusal to put it in the trunk of the car pushed all my buttons at once. I quickly decided that if my father wouldn't take away the bat, I would. After a brief struggle with Robbie, I was able to get the bat. I asked Dad to open the trunk and I would put it in there out of harm's way. He not only refused, but quickly locking the doors and windows, he started to drive away. With that, I jumped on the hood of the car. A stalemate ensued, my father and brothers locked in the car and myself on the hood, refusing to leave and challenging them to either let me in or drive away with me on the hood. Maybe, they'd be lucky and I'd fall off with the bonus prize of a permanently disabling injury.
Naturally, all this was attracting attention. Soon, we had a crowd and I was the show. With the baseball bat in my hand, I was the madman on the car hood. Predictably, I was committed to Camarillo State Hospital on the grounds of being a danger to others due to a mental disorder.

I'm not mad, I'm angry.