From The Bone Garden of Desire by Charles Bowden:
They take away the mints because the case is metal. They scrutinize the carton of cigarettes also and then I’m allowed on the ward. Dick is puzzled by the shower, why the head is buried up some kind of funnel in the ceiling. It takes him weeks to figure out they are trying to prevent him from hanging himself. Of course, he cannot think clearly, what with the steady dose of electroshcok treatments. He’d checked himself in after the suicide attempt failed. He had saved up his Valiums, taken what he figured to be a massive dose, and then, goddammit, still woke up Monday morning when by any decent standards he ought to have been dead. It was the depression, he told me, the endless darkness. He could handle the booze, and when he was rolling, that was a quart or two of vodka a night, plus coke, of course, to stay alert for the vodka. There was that time he’d checked into detox with blood oozing from his eyes and ears and ass. But he could handle that. He was working on the smoking, didn’t light up in the house, you know.
But he couldn’t take the depression, never tasted blackness like that.