Modrow, a self-described cured schizophrenic, begins and ends his book with extensive citations of psychiatric studies, but the bulk of the book is an extremely engaging, gritty account of his childhood, growing up in the 1940s and 50s with a somewhat vagrant, impoverished and neglectful family.
As a kid, the author establishes himself pretty convincingly as a weirdo outcast, the one making disgusting mud pies, getting in fights, saying bizarre things, hating the attention that he got.
He's basically aimless, getting into all kinds of random solitary mischief--for the most part (with one shocking exception), well within what you'd expect from a kid left to himself around trailer parks and hobo camps.
He describes himself frankly, without justifying any of his behavior, leaving no doubt that he was a very difficult child. But it's when he gets in trouble with his parents, and psychiatrists, that a bad situation gets much worse.
Modrow describes his schizophrenic episodes as frankly and vividly as everything else. He captures the ecstasy and the terror, the logorrhea, the drive to proselytize. Particularly haunting is his vision of car headlights at night, and his perception of them as the eyes of demons, seeing right through him, measuring his soul. It's terrifying, but also exhilarating; a manic state, a frisson.
It seems clear that schizophrenia is a symptom, a state of mind that's part of a continuum, merely an extension of other "normal" states of being. People in religious ecstasy speak of visions, of spirits, maybe even roll on the floor and speak nonsense--people who are otherwise completely sane. Or deemed sane by their culture, anyway, and that's all that matters.
He has many schizophrenic friends. Maybe they seek each other out, or do they just happen to be drawn to the same desolate places? As a child, he encounters an older man, a drifter who gives the boy religious advice. As an adult, he has friends--close friends, one of whom, in a touching anecdote, comes to share a joke delusion with Modrow. Modrow sees this interaction as therapeutic, a very compelling idea (perhaps explored more fully in The Three Christs of Ypsilanti).
Religion and schizophrenia are closely intertwined--a theme deeply explored, anecdotally but effectively. Modrow had always admired John the Baptist. At the moment of his "revelation," he understands, in ecstasy, that he IS John the Baptist. This epiphany is triggered by reading, in the gospels, that Jesus was Elijah. If Jesus could be someone else, then so could he--and in a single, ecstatic instant, everything just fell into place.
There are some weaknesses. Toward the end especially, Modrow's dogmatism and anger at the medical establishment begin to show through, and while the volume of citations and critique of the state of research are commendable, the persecuted tone detracts from his credibility.
Also, about the mushrooms? In just one sentence, as part of an unrelated story, and only in an appendix, Modrow mentions that he was at one point was growing hallucinogenic mushrooms in jars. It's a tantalizing detail, especially given the themes of the book. Were the mushrooms an attempt to self-medicate? An attempt to intentionally explore and thus control his altered state of consciousness? This omission is especially problematic, as Modrow has a lot to say about the profit-driven pharmaceutical industry and its many unsuccessful attempts to treating schizophrenia--unsuccessful except through effectively lobotomizing the sufferers. But if Modrow was exploring alternative medications, whether mind-expanding or mind-numbing, legal or not, he should have said something.
In the end, Modrow's story gives enormous hope to schizophrenics, if not to the institutionalized. It's humanizing, life-affirming, honest, fascinating. I'd strongly recommend it to anyone with loved ones who have dissociative