Election 2000. New York City. Having quit my job as a correspondence control specialist at the Ford Foundation, I quickly spiraled out of manic control, had a "breakthrough," and stopped taking my quetiapine and lithium. The person from whom I had been renting a postage-stamp-sized room in Astoria, Queens, put a bolt on the door so I could not reenter, which led me to call 911, with the result that two police officers showed up and told this individual that he was acting against the law, in that I had been a tenant for more than a year, even if I wasn't on the lease. To no avail. The policemen's walkie-talkies sounded off, and they were off to their next emergency, my landlord kicking me out on to the streets. No longer taking my medication, I took to walking to every emergency department in Manhattan to get a blood test for a blood-borne malady that was coursing through my veins; I wanted a cure, a panacea. I sought intervention about this most important phenomenon.