Vincent Willem Van Gogh 1853-1890
May 1889
I am peaceful here. The hospital gave me my own studio, and they let me paint outside. They give me all necessary things. Doctors and psychiatrists come occasionally. They still can’t find out what is wrong with my mental health. Some tell me it’s bipolar disorder, some tell me it’s schizophrenia. It doesn’t matter what it is. But sometimes, I do feel odd. Sometimes I start wondering what does paint taste like. Eating paint caused even more doctors to come and try examine me. They temporarily take my paint away when I eat them. If they had really wanted to stop me from eating paint, shouldn’t they just never give them back? I don’t understand why they keep letting me paint. The doctors tell me I see thing that are not really there. I don’t understand. How do I see them if they’re not there? They have to be there for me to see them.
July 1889
Now I know why they were calling me sick. This had never happened before. An old friend visited me. It was Madame Ginoux. She reminded me of the old days. I did not look at the past happily. The past reminded me of unpleasant memories. In addition to her visit, I felt like I was being kept confined in a cage. Being locked indoors stressed me out. thinking all those, I found myself trembling on the floor. After some time, I started breakdowns, seizures and hallucinations. I finally understood. They were not there. My mind was making all those images up. I was sick. I told Theo that I was “losing fear of the thing.” Knowing Theo, he must’ve thought about that sentence for a big amount of time. But you know what Theo? Big Brother is crazy. Like Paul said. Like my old bosses said. Like our neighbors said. Like the doctors said. And like you said.
October 1889
A gallery contacted me from France. They wanted to display my paintings in the “Les XX” exhibition of post-Impressionists in Paris. So I started working on self portraits. I don’t know how many of them I painted. I also lost count of the paintings I made during my stay at the asylum. I felt like I was at the pinnacle of my work. Doctors would often ask me “Why did you paint the sky like that? Do you see it that way?” I never felt like answering them. but the answer was that I felt it was that way. Staying here for almost a year, made my feelings stronger. I wrote to Theo that I was “working like one actually possessed… in a dumb fury of work.” I had finally started enjoying myself. Paris World Fair talked well of my work, and some of my paintings were even sold. Society seemed to enjoy the works of a sick man. Deep down, we’re all sick. The only ones that show their true colors, are the ones in asylums.
July 29 1890
A couple of months ago, I left St. Remy and met my brother. Theo introduced me to his wife and showed me their newborn child. The child was named after me. Vincent Willem. That child is also part of my legacy to this world. A doctor from the asylum told me to meet a certain doctor. His name was Paul Gachet. I can’t say our meetings went very well. I suddenly feel like giving up. Giving up on everything. I think I have done enough. I have endured enough. I am sorry Theo. You already have a life and you are happy. I never acted like a big brother towards you. You always took care of me. I am grateful. Thank you. Thank you and farewell.