My amusement turned sour when I discovered that the psychiatrists really behaved as if I were a serious "patient". I thought at the beginning that, since I did not do anything wrong, they -- whoever decided to "hospitalize" me -- would change their minds and let me go. I kept writing my diary and claimed that the psychiatrists were wrong, but, in the end, I discovered that I was the one who was mistaken. Whatever I did, even my claim that I had done nothing to be in a mental hospital, was interpreted by the psychiatrists and some nurses as a symptom that I was sick. Convinced that I was in the wrong place, I languished in these hospitals for six months.

After six months I found that the "treatment" had devastating consequences on my life -- social, family, professional. Metaphorically speaking, I felt like a patient who had undergone surgery and the surgeons left their instruments in my stomach. During my hospitalization I thought I did not need any treatment, but after six months internment I felt that I needed a "surgeon" who would take the "instruments" out. I met many people -- psychiatrists, lawyers and officials in positions to help me. Many agreed that the psychiatrists had taken a tremendously shocking step. Some even expressed abhorrence at the inhuman treatment. In other words, they "detected the instruments", but nobody had the courage or ability to take them out. Some offered a little assistance but it was not enough to solve my problem.

There was only one positive aspect to my stay in the hospitals -- I improved my French. However, I was not fluent enough in the French language for the purposes of my diary. Following my internment I was "directed" to Ontario and compelled to learn English.

With the help of Dr. Sebastian K. Littmann, a professor of psychiatry, I wrote a short account of my case a long time ago.¹ My case was presented on TV and journalists wrote about it, but with practically no success. Instead, my situation was aggravated.

My story is so shocking that it would seem to be an incredible crime fiction.

Exchanging communist totalitarian rule for a free and democratic society, I left my homeland, former Yugoslavia, to emigrate to Canada.

I had been a respected physician in my old country. I was hard working and had earned a salary higher than that of a specialist.

I met others from the medical profession and was accepted by my new friends as an "honest and brilliant physician". With such excellent references I was on my way to work in the psychiatric field in New Brunswick. ² I was considered a "good husband" by my wife and praised by my own children as "the best father in the world".

While waiting to be interviewed for a position in New Brunswick I decided to learn English through studies in Ontario. It was hard to leave my family behind in Quebec, especially since my wife was not adapting very well to her new life and had been treated for being disturbed.

On one of my visits to see my beloved children in Quebec City, I was apprehended by the police, without a warrant. I was completely bewildered when the police brought me to a mental hospital. I did not know what was happening. Why was I being detained? What had I done wrong? Why had I been picked up from the street like a criminal? Even criminals have to be arrested with a warrant and are entitled to a fair hearing. In my case, there was neither a warrant nor a hearing by a judge.

I later learned that this action had been taken by some doctors based solely upon trumped-up evidence. Without any examination whatsoever, I was labelled as a "schizoparanoid".

It was apparent that a grave blunder had been made. In the hospital where I was admitted, the first psychiatrist who examined me disagreed with the perpetrators' original diagnosis. Another psychiatrist called the whole affair just "a storm in a teacup".

To justify my long detention, the psychiatrists did a brazen somersault. Conjuring up a new, nonexistent diagnosis in psychiatric terminology, they discharged me with -- "situational depression!"

After six months of being treated as a "very serious patient", with utmost brutality, I was released or rather unlawfully deported to Ontario -- without medication or any further recommendation for consultation or treatment. Then I proceeded to make my own investigations and submitted voluntarily to psychiatric examinations. The consensus of a panel of many competent psychiatrists at St. Michael's Hospital in Toronto was that I had been "hospitalized or jailed without trial".

The Quebec psychiatrists involved later defended themselves in court by producing medical records which an expert proved were forged.

It was proved in court that the psychiatrist who claimed to have examined me and diagnosed me as a "schizoparanoid" had not even met me. It was also proved that the psychiatrists had used reprehensible forgeries and lies to justify their own actions in order to escape the ugly situation they found themselves in.

The case proceeded all the way to the Supreme Court of Canada. Despite irrefutable evidence to the contrary, the psychiatrists were exonerated by the courts as being "conscientious, diligent, honest and competent".

My internment was a horrendous experience but the worst was yet to come. My personal and professional life was ruined and a feeling of great distress remains with me to this day.

My family life was not the most enjoyable but it still was a family life, which would not have been ruined without the outsiders' evil meddling. I have not only lost my family. I almost lost my faith in humanity and the meaning of life. In such an ugly situation, even the strongest spirits can be shattered.

I have suffered far too long from a system that has some chilling echoes of the Inquisition.

This is a story about psychiatrists who need psychiatrists and, I dare say, about unscrupulous judges who need to be judged. The reader will also meet evildoers who can do nothing but evil. You will find mentally disturbed individuals who make fools of people who are supposed to be wise. What I am saying about mentally disturbed individuals is not a figure of speech. Some instigators had been psychiatric patients themselves. Of course, they could not accomplish their diabolic plan without copious help from corrupt or inept psychiatrists and legal authorities as well.

I am well aware of how some unprincipled psychiatrists abuse their patients. However, I believe that the gravity and severity of my case is without precedent.

It is inconceivable that a healthy person like myself could be and indeed was kept for six long months among really dangerous patients.

A prominent psychiatrist, Dr. Josif M. Divic, equated my internment with the nightmare experience of Joseph K., the hero in Kafka's The Trial.³

I am feeling like I am in a tunnel without light in sight. What shall or should I do if this writing fails to accomplish my goal -- to get rid of the stigma, the cause of my unbearable situation?

Since I could not clear myself through the appropriate legal channels, I decided to write about my experience with unscrupulous psychiatrists and incidentally to put the justice system (judges and lawyers) on trial. I hope that this book will bring to light the criminal activities of the delinquents. In my case, almost all sections of the Canadian Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms and Universal Declaration of Human Rights were violated.

I am well aware that my story may not be easy to follow. First, I have not been endowed by the muses with the talents of a good writer. Secondly, my mastery of English is not at the level it should be. And thirdly, in spite of the efforts by my helpers to improve my writing linguistically and stylistically, it was I who insisted on preserving my own "style" of writing as much as possible. After all, I am more interested in presenting my case as a documentary than a literary work.

I hope that this book will not only achieve my own rehabilitation but will also be of considerable public interest. I believe it will be worthwhile reading for the general public, health professionals and jurists. But most of all, I hope the real beneficiaries of my story will be my children, who have lived so long in darkness and confusion. They have not been fully informed of the truth. I hope they will learn who their father is and what kind of person he is. This book is written in this spirit and hope.

If my sons are truly mine, then they ought to be concerned about their own and their father's name. I know that their feelings for me have diminished since I was incarcerated. But my feelings are still the same, if not stronger. It was better for all of us not to know the truth, because, although we were living in a callous and insensitive world, as a father, I was able to make them feel secure and "proud as kings", as they wrote before. And as a father, I was more than happy with my three boys.⁴ This book is, first and foremost, dedicated to them and written for them.

Risto Delev M.D.
October 29, 1993