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  • Clifford talked to the television. I was a teenager when I lived with him and I was trying to watch a program while he paced back and forth in front of the set. He was angry again at the voices that were trying to get him through mind control and the images on the television monitor. Finally, he reached down and switched it off.

    I got off the sofa and turned the set back on. Clifford paced a bit more, then reached down and turned off the television again. I got up. I walked to the television. I told him to leave the room if he didn't like the show I was watching. I knew he was sick, but so was I. I was sick of life with the mentally ill.

    I waited for him to turn it off again. I could see him itching to do it. He looked at me and I looked at him with as much menace as I could manage. The moment seemed to go on forever. Finally, he did it. Clifford reached down and snapped off the television. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to scream.

    But I couldn't hit him so I stamped on his foot. Hard as I could. Clifford said it's ok, you didn't mean it. Then I burst into tears.

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