well for the benefit of the superintendent as the patient.




December.--They will not allow me to go home, and I must write these
things down for fear I forget. It will help to pass the time away. It is
very hard to endure this prison life, and know that my sons think me
insane when I am not.

How unkind Mrs. Mills is today; does she think this sort of treatment is
for the good of our health? I begged for milk today, and she can't spare
me any; she has not enough for all the old women, she says. I don't wish
to deprive any one of that which they require, but have I not a right to
all I require to feed me and make me well? All I do need is good
nourishing food, and I know better than any one else can what I require
to build me up and make me as I was before I met with this strange
change of condition. I remember telling the Doctor, on his first visit
to my room, that I only needed biscuit and milk and beef tea to make me
well. He rose to his feet and said, "I know better than any other man."
That was all I heard him say, and he walked out, leaving me without a
word of sympathy, or a promise that I should have anything. I say to
myself (as I always talk aloud to myself when not well), "You don't know
any more than this old woman does." I take tea with Mrs. Mills; I don't
like to look at those patients who look so wretched.

I can't bear to see myself in the glass, I am so wasted--so miserable.
My poor boys, no wonder you look so sad, to see your mother looking so
badly, and be compelled to leave her here alone among strangers who know
nothing about her past life. They don't seem to have any respect for me.