It didn’t matter that he said the wrong things to the staff; they didn’t pay attention. For 10 minutes every week, he saw his psychiatrist, Dr. Spellman, who had a voice that "sounded as if he worked hard on it, practicing for hours at home every night." Spellman’s sessions did nothing to instruct, advise, or help his patient. All the staff seemed interested only in finding out who was keeping the contraband pieces of mirror shattered by a patient when Knipfel first got there, and they remained intent on that throughout his stay. For Knipfel, it was a vacation from real life; it gave him plenty of odd, funny stories, but it effected no change. When regulations showed he had spent enough weeks on the ward, he was sprung; Spellman said it was because he had made such progress, but Knipfel writes, "I was locked away in that ward in Minneapolis because I was a self-destructive young man. Months later, I left the ward a self-destructive young man." We can be thankful he has harnessed his impulses to be able to produce a book that is lacerating and funny, but no thanks are owed to those who were entrusted with his care. Any quitting of the trio he can credit to himself.