Angelhead: My Brother's Descent into Madness

By Greg Bottoms

A taut, robust memoir of insanity, Angelhead files the violent, drug-addled descent of the author's brother, Michael, into schizophrenia. starting with Michael's first psychotic break—seeing God in his suburban bed room window whereas excessive on LSD—Greg Bottoms recounts, in gripping, dramatic prose, the weird disappearances, suicide makes an attempt, and the surprising crime that land Michael within the psychiatric wing of a greatest safety legal. a piece of nonfiction with the shape and imagery of a unique, Angelhead allows the reader to witness not just the fragmenting of a brain, yet of a relations as well.

"A tour-de-force memoir. . . . Bottoms writes like a poet, he writes like he's on fire."—Esquire, booklet of the 12 months, 2000

"Angelhead is an excellent, albeit inconceivably unhappy publication. the truth that Bottoms survived the ordeal is fantastic. however the undeniable fact that he may possibly write approximately it with such pathos and perception is not anything lower than extraordinary."—Atlanta Journal-Constitution

"Greg Bottoms has supplied a biographical novel approximately his brother which may be as shut as such a lot people will ever get to figuring out what it's to be really mad. Angelhead is a narrative approximately as terrifying because the ailment it describes."—Psychology Today

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He imagined, for a second, that he was once an individual you may like. Even the idea of connection introduced a lump to his throat. humans feared Michael. humans really left the mall due to him. He was once now the filthy beggar that insects you at 7-Eleven, the fellow with a will paintings for nutrients signal sitting through the on-ramp that you just verify to not make eye touch with, a felony. They weren’t his acquaintances was once how he begun, my mom informed me. They—the 3 of them—had been staring at a film, a comedy. They have been guffawing. One positioned his hand on Michael’s leg. both one, doesn’t topic. They have been criminals. i am not even giving them names. Michael heard the chattering, heard voices, however the medicine grew to become them into whispers, indecipherable, far-off issues. the hot, more advantageous medicinal drugs smudged every little thing. and so they made him slower, uncoordinated. He—one of them—kissed Michael’s neck, licked his face. They have been nonetheless guffawing, relatively inebriated. It was once funny—those idiots, these fucking assholes at the tube, guy, they have been humorous, correct. Hand on a leg. lighting fixtures dim. simply guffawing at these crass-ass motherfuckers cracking us the fuck up at the tube, correct. Ain’t making an attempt not anything humorous. No bullshit. My brother sat blank-faced, tensed up, considered Florida, of the way painful it used to be to get fucked, simply because fucking, he knew, used to be a violent act, an act of energy or acquiescence, delusion or nightmare, reckoning on which facet of it you have been on. For those men, my brother used to be a person who didn’t topic, who could by no means topic, a man the realm will be at an advantage with out, so who may care if he was once held down and fucked, fucked in his face and in his ass. simply because he wasn’t human, he was once a plaything, a gruesome fuck-doll for criminals, similar to a few of these geeks in juvie, the punks that the kingpins made seize their ankles and speak like a woman. they would been fucking boys in juvie, those , have been fucked as boys in juvie. Boy, woman, didn’t topic, only a gap, simply whatever to shove your dick in, could to boot be an animal, this fats ridiculous factor. He allow them to do it. My brother didn’t struggle. Voices chattered. might be he left his physique. i need to visualize that he left his physique, much like S did the day he used to be murdered 8 years previous, and watched the whole lot with whole detachment, and not using a hint of soreness or humiliation, with the beatific gaze of a saint or a department-store model. He didn’t withstand. He didn’t face up to while, in that blue blinking gentle from the television, or God, whichever, they wrapped a bicycle chain round his neck. He didn’t face up to once they placed their genitals in his face. He didn’t face up to after they tore his outfits and obtained him mendacity bare, rolls of flesh putting off bone, his schizophrenic stink filling the home. He didn’t withstand any of it. They did what they sought after, did every little thing, made him bleed, and perhaps he considered what hell could be like, similar to this, residing in an international the place you probably did no longer topic, the place not anything made feel and not anyone should be depended on, the place each nightmare used to be actual, the place you grew to become a unfavourable of what you as soon as have been and there has been no aid, at any place, available.

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