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Bedlam or asylum?

For the past 15 years, my son has suffered from manic depression. I have seen at first hand the shocking deteriotation in Britain's mental health services. We have stopped looking madness in the face

By Magnus Linklater   March 2001

When it’s two o’clock in the morning, and you’re manic, even the UCLA medical centre has a certain appeal. The hospital-ordinarily a cold clotting of uninteresting buildings-became for me, that fall morning not quite 20 years ago, a focus of my finely wired, exquisitely alert nervous system. With vibrissae twinging, antennae perked, eyes fast-forwarding and fly-faceted, I took in everything around me. I was on the run. Not just on the run but fast and furious on the run, darting back and forth across the hospital parking lot trying to use up a boundless, restless, manic energy. I was running…

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