Psychologist Ronald Bassman, once diagnosed and treated for schizophrenia, brings new hope to patients and families.

The seclusion room was empty except for a mattress covered in black rubber on the concrete floor. They lowered me onto the mattress and turned me on my side. I fought their grip on my ankles and wrists, but they were too strong and experienced. I quit struggling and stared at the wire-encased ceiling light. I couldn't see the nurse when she came in and said, "Get him ready." They quickly pulled my pants and underwear down to my knees. I winced at the violent thrust of the needle. I tried to prepare myself to fight the onslaught of the thought-dulling, body-numbing Thorazine.

They waited for the drug to take effect before they stripped me of my clothes. I was left naked in the seclusion room, and no explanations were given. They did not tell me how long I would stay there.

Three decades have passed since I've had any kind of psychiatric treatment, yet the memories remain. Even after more than 20 years of work as a licensed psychologist, the nightmares have not disappeared. The dreams of endless wanderings through gauze-shrouded hospital corridors, the disembodied screams, and the smothering restraints and seclusion were not overcome by my successes. Those haunting memories only ended when I was finally able to use all of my experiences, when I was able to stop hiding my psychiatric history, and when I could speak publicly about my own treatment and transformation. Now I understand the importance of sharing what I learned from living and working on both sides of the locked door.

I am just one of many who have suffered psychiatric torments from an inadequate and often destructive mental health system. The journey that brought me to this place of credibility enables me to offer my experience not only to those who have the power to bring about change, but also to those who feel powerless and need inspiration. My good fortune allows me to challenge the prevailing psychiatric model. When you become a mental patient, you are no longer regarded as a whole person with an individual mix of strengths and weaknesses.

When I was discharged from the hospital, I was told I had an incurable disease called schizophrenia. The doctor told my family that my chances of being rehospitalized were very high. His medical orders were directed at my parents, not me, and stated with an absolute authority that discouraged any challenge. He predicted a lifetime in the back ward of a state hospital if his orders were not followed.

"He will need to take medication for the rest of his life. For now, you need to bring him to the hospital weekly for outpatient treatment and he must not see any of his old friends."

I was devastated.

The hospital doctor put me into a coma five days a week for eight weeks by injecting me with insulin. Those 40 insulin treatments combined with electroshock blasted huge holes in my memory, parts of which have never returned. I ballooned from 140 to 170 pounds; I appeared the clown in clothes that no longer fit. My already damaged self-image had plummeted to an unrecognizable depth, and the heavy doses of Thorazine and Stelazine made me feel like I was walking in slow-motion under water.

Was the doctor joking? Not see my old friends? How was I going to face them and explain what had become of me? Did anyone really think that I was capable of making new friends? I was sure that they would have nothing to do with me. But the most disturbing of all the orders was to hear him say that I would never be free of the hospital's control.

My best friends were once locked up in mental hospitals and fought their way back. We are psychiatric survivors. Some believe that psychiatric survivors defy the odds. Or maybe we were never really mentally ill, just misdiagnosed. After all, they say schizophrenia is a lifelong disease. Such reasoning makes my peers and me look like exceptions. Among our large group of closeted ex-patients are lawyers, teachers, mechanics, doctor carpenters, plumbers and psychologists. We are your neighbors, ministers and friends, living and working in your communities. Many thousands choose not to reveal their past.

People diagnosed with schizophrenia in Third World countries have higher rates of recovery than those who live in First World nations. Why is this?

I choose to speak and write about my experiences so that others who have been diagnosed and treated for serious mental illness will be able to see new hope and possibility. After speaking engagements, I often get call and letters from people who at thankful that someone is speaking out They hide their past just as I did, but go on with their lives without anyone but their friends and families knowing about their psychiatric histories. Sometime psychology students ask for advice about whether they should disclose their past.

They are stung by the insensitivity and misinformation perpetuated in their programs. But those students suffer silently. They know it is not in their best interest to disclose their histories if they expect to succeed.

For the past five years, I have presented psychiatric survivor concerns at lectures and symposiums at the American Psychological Association's annual convention. I have tried to connect with other psychologists who have been diagnosed and treated for major mental illness. At the annual conventions, I hold a meeting for psychologists who have psychiatric histories as well as those who are interested in serious mental illness. I have tried to make it a safe place for people to meet without feeling that they are at risk of being exposed. They can choose to participate as an interested psychologist if they feel uncomfortable about revealing their experiences.

Over the years, psychologists have come to our meetings and talked about their experiences as mental patients. Some disclosed their past for the first time. But in this organization comprising more than 130,000 members, with an annual convention that draws between 20,000 and 30,000 psychologists, only 15 have felt safe enough to reveal their histories.