I myself spent nine years in an insane asylum and I never had

Hear the dark and thunderous words of Antonin Artaud, who confessed: “I myself spent nine years in an insane asylum and I never had the obsession of suicide, but I know that each conversation with a psychiatrist, every morning at the time of his visit, made me want to hang myself, realizing that I would not be able to cut his throat.” These words, jagged and raw, are not the polished speech of a philosopher, but the cry of a soul that has stared into the abyss. Yet within this bitterness is a truth older than time: that the deepest despair of man is not always born of his own mind, but of feeling unseen, unheard, and reduced by those who claim to heal him.

The meaning of this saying is not merely a hatred of psychiatrists, but a revelation of the powerlessness that can arise under the gaze of authority. Artaud tells us that though madness and despair surrounded him, he did not desire death until faced with the cold machinery of treatment, where his humanity felt stripped away. The “morning visit” he describes is not just a clinical appointment—it is the ritual of a system that turns the individual into a specimen, speaking to him as an object rather than a soul. It is this reduction, this spiritual erasure, that ignites his violent imagery.

The origin of this truth lies in the nature of confinement and power. From the ancient leper colonies to the dungeons of the Inquisition, from prisons to asylums, history shows that men and women are not destroyed only by their illness or crime but by the stripping of their dignity. Even the well-meaning can become agents of despair when they fail to recognize the human heart behind the label. Artaud, as an artist and visionary, felt this loss of dignity more keenly than most. His words echo across centuries, warning that healing without empathy becomes another form of harm.

Consider the story of Fyodor Dostoevsky, who, before writing his great novels, was condemned to death in Tsarist Russia. He stood before the firing squad, believing his life moments from ending, only to be reprieved and sent to a Siberian prison camp. There he witnessed not only the cruelty of the system but also the resilience of the human soul. From that crucible he emerged with insights that shaped The Brothers Karamazov and Crime and Punishment. Like Artaud, Dostoevsky learned that institutions meant to control or reform can just as easily crush the spirit if they lack compassion.

The lesson of Artaud’s words is a double-edged blade. For those who suffer, it is a reminder to guard the inner flame, to refuse the total erasure of self even when trapped in systems of power. For those who hold authority—the doctors, the teachers, the leaders—it is a warning to treat no soul as a mere case or problem. Every human being, no matter how lost, carries a sacred dignity, and when this dignity is denied, despair and rage grow like thorns.

Practical actions must follow. If you work in healing or leadership, let every interaction be marked by empathy. Look past the label to the person before you. If you are under hardship, hold fast to your own humanity; write, create, pray, or speak to keep alive the voice within you. As Artaud himself did, use art or expression to transmute pain into testimony, rather than allowing it to consume you in silence. In this way, even confinement becomes a place of defiance, and despair is turned into the seed of wisdom.

And so, child of tomorrow, remember the harsh but vital truth in Artaud’s confession. Suffering is not only the illness—it is the loss of dignity at the hands of those who claim to heal. Resist this erasure by asserting your humanity; guard your compassion so that you never become the instrument of someone else’s despair. In this way, you honor not only yourself but all who walk the hard road of suffering. For though the world may place you in chains, your inner self—your sacred dignity—must never bow.