You simply can't imagine what outrageous things psychiatric patients might do just to get discharged from the hospital.
In 2019, in Nanchong City, four patients, desperate to leave, disguised themselves and slipped past the security guards, escaping together on a rainy night.
The patient in today's story kept repeating every day: "Save me, save me."
His doctor initially suspected he was suffering from persecutory delusions.
That was until the man started swallowing nails and eating cement, determined to get out of the psychiatric hospital even if it killed him.
Only then did the doctor realize—there was something much deeper going on.
This story comes from one of my colleagues, Dr. Lin Buyu, an author for the "Genius Catcher Project" and a physician working at a psychiatric hospital.
Chen Shun was admitted in the early hours of the morning. Patients like him are the ones I dread the most.
For a doctor at a psychiatric hospital, "admitted in the early morning" is always a red flag—
It means the onset was sudden, the behavior was aggressive, and the situation was severe. Many of these patients are even brought in by the police after causing trouble during an episode.
Chen Shun didn't arrive in a police car, though. He was delivered by his family and village officials in the dead of night.
But his family didn't stay, didn't leave any instructions—just dropped him off and left.
When I saw him the next day, he was curled up in a corner of the activity hall, hugging his knees.
Unlike the combative, destructive "early morning patients," Chen Shun was eerily quiet.
When I approached him, he paid me no mind, muttering something under his breath.
It sounded like a dialect—I could only catch fragments.
It seemed to be… "Save me, save me…"
As he muttered, his body trembled. I noticed his lips were dry and cracked, with faint traces of blood, and his voice was hoarse.
He had probably been repeating this all night.
Chen Shun's sunken eyes made him look exhausted and fragile, yet he kept whispering—
"Save me, save me."
But despite being the only one receiving his distress signal, he refused to communicate with me.
Chen Shun's admission records indicated he suffered from persecutory delusions and auditory hallucinations.
His symptoms included refusing to eat seafood, claiming someone was trying to poison him, and hearing voices speaking to him.
I tried mimicking Chen Shun's accent, hoping he'd understand me. "What's bothering you?"
"I can't go on like this. I need to leave." His response was directed somewhere between me and the corner of the wall.
"Is someone trying to hurt you? Are you hearing voices?"
He glanced at me briefly, then moved his hands from his knees to clutch his chest.
He seemed cold, even though he was wearing a sweater and a padded jacket—more than enough for southern China's autumn weather.
Worried he might have tuberculosis or another infectious disease like some recent patients, I asked a nurse to take him for tests and rest in the observation room.
The results came back quickly: Chen Shun only had mild anemia and sinus arrhythmia. Relieved, I prescribed him some standard antipsychotic medication.
Oral antipsychotics have harsh side effects, and Chen Shun was already dangerously thin. I was afraid he wouldn't survive the treatment without proper nutrition, so I wanted to ask his family to bring him supplements.
But the moment his father answered the phone, he snapped, "No time," and hung up.
That coldness unsettled me.
Chen Shun was diagnosed with schizophrenia. And while genetics and physical illnesses can contribute to schizophrenia, family dynamics—or traumatic events—are also major triggers.
What was behind those desperate pleas of "Save me"?
The next morning, Chen Shun made a scene.
During my rounds, I found him curled up in a corner, clutching his stomach in agony.
Fearing he had swallowed something—common in psychiatric wards—I rushed him for an X-ray and checked the surveillance footage.
The footage showed Chen Shun tossing and turning all night.
At around 4 a.m., when his roommates were asleep, he got up and pressed his face against the door, scanning the hallway.
Once he confirmed no one was around, he walked to his bed, tore off a piece of the sheet, wrapped it around his fingers, and scraped something off the rusted, loose window frame.
Then, without hesitation, he put it in his mouth.
Sure enough, the X-ray revealed a nail in his stomach.
My heart leaped into my throat.
If that nail wasn't removed in time and caused a perforation in his digestive tract, Chen Shun could die.
Luckily, the nail was small. We decided to monitor him first, hoping it would pass naturally. Surgery would be a last resort.
I instructed the orderlies to keep an eye on Chen Shun's bowel movements and report anything unusual.
Then I brought him a bowl of rice porridge and sat by his bed.
After studying his face for a while, I finally asked, "Why did you swallow a nail?"
For the first time, he didn't avoid my gaze.
Sensing a slight drop in his guard, I pressed further. "Did you hear someone telling you to die?"
I suspected Chen Shun had "command hallucinations." His constant "Save me" might have been a response to voices ordering him to kill himself.
If that were the case, it'd be a nightmare—no one could watch him 24/7 to prevent suicide attempts.
But Chen Shun pulled his hand away and shook his head, his eyes drifting toward the door.
No matter what else I asked, his only response was—
"I want to go home."
Long-term patients often feel confined and crave freedom—it's normal to want to leave.
But for someone to go this far on just the second day, even risking death, Chen Shun was the first.
I could tell this man was hiding something.
But if he wouldn't talk, I didn't know how to help him.
Two days later, Chen Shun passed the nail. Aside from minor gastrointestinal bleeding, he was fine.
But I was uneasy—there was no telling if he'd try something else.
I called Chen Shun's father, hoping he'd visit.
Normally, psychiatric patients aren't allowed family visits in the first month—it can trigger emotional instability and hinder treatment.
But Chen Shun's condition was already precarious.
When his father learned his son was fine, he brushed me off, saying he had to care for his granddaughter.
I had no choice but to increase supervision over Chen Shun, talking to him whenever possible and showing concern.
I also reinforced all the windows and beds in the ward to prevent loose screws or nails. The night shift orderlies were instructed to check on Chen Shun more frequently.
Over the next two months, Chen Shun was remarkably compliant. He took his meds on time, never hid pills, and stopped muttering in corners.
With proper sleep and regular meals, he even gained weight. His mental state improved, and he seemed more alive.
He no longer chanted "Save me," though he'd still yell "Poisoned!" at the sight of seaweed or dried fish in the cafeteria.
When I asked who was poisoning him or what he was hearing, he'd just repeat:
"I want to go home."
Not a word more.
What was so urgent at home? He was like a tightly sealed clam—no one knew what was inside.
But I noticed he'd started playing cards and watching TV with other patients, especially getting along with orderly Lao Zhang.
Lao Zhang worked nights and often patrolled near Chen Shun. One afternoon, I even saw him offer Chen Shun a cigarette.
In all my years, this was the first time I'd seen Lao Zhang willingly share a smoke with a patient.
Lao Zhang chuckled and handed me one too. "He's helpful—always pitching in with chores."
By "chores," he meant things like collecting dishes or sweeping the activity hall.
Pleased, I walked over and patted Chen Shun's shoulder. "You're recovering well. Keep it up, and you'll be discharged soon."
No one realized this was the calm before the storm.
That morning, before the usual patient lineup for rounds, Chen Shun was already waiting by the iron gate.
When I arrived for work, I saw him leaning against the door, staring coldly at the office.
As I unlocked the door, he suddenly said, "Dr. Lin, I swallowed a nail."
My heart sank.
The surveillance footage showed Chen Shun getting up in the middle of the night, wandering the hallway, then vanishing for over ten minutes before reappearing.
He'd found a blind spot—the bathroom.
The camera clearly captured him emerging with a nail, likely pried from an old bed frame stored near the toilets.
He hurried back to his bed, sat upright, and held the nail in his mouth before spitting it out.
After checking that the orderlies weren't around, he returned to his bed.
He repeated this several times before finally swallowing the nail.
The whole thing was like a meticulously planned "jailbreak."
I noticed Chen Shun hesitating—he was clearly afraid of the physical pain.
This proved the past two months of treatment had worked. His thoughts, emotions, and willpower were recovering—this wasn't the behavior of someone suicidally delusional.
What shocked me most was that his "good behavior" and "helpfulness" had all been an act. Befriending Lao Zhang was just to learn the night patrol schedule and surveillance gaps.
For a schizophrenic patient in treatment, his planning was disturbingly meticulous.
What could be so important that he'd risk his life to escape?
The nail from the bed frame was larger and dirtier, so we sent Chen Shun to an external hospital for treatment and notified his family.
This time, Chen Shun got his wish.
His father cursed over the phone and hung up. Only his uncle showed up—he covered the medical bills but warned that if Chen Shun kept this up, he wouldn't help again.
After two weeks of external treatment, Chen Shun was discharged. I reminded him to take his meds at home—stopping could trigger a relapse.
"I will, I will." For the first time, I saw the faintest smile on his face.
"You went through so much to leave. What's so urgent? Can you tell me?"
Chen Shun replied in a southern Fujian dialect, roughly meaning: "I need to go back for prayers—only then will things be alright."
Many coastal Fujian villages have traditions of praying for blessings. Chen Shun's hometown was on an island, likely with rituals for good fortune. I didn't think much of it.
But not long after returning home, Chen Shun was sent back—this time by the police.
He'd gotten into a fight with a dockworker, and officers had to separate them.
This time, he finally made a request: "Dr. Lin, can you call my uncle to bring me my seashell?"
Seashell?
His tone shifted when he mentioned it. I sensed this was tied to his "heartache."
The next day, his uncle arrived.
He explained that after Chen Shun's illness became known, the whole village avoided their family. In a small place, gossip spreads fast.
He'd pulled strings to get Chen Shun a job as a dock security guard. Thankfully, Chen Shun worked hard and stayed out of trouble.
But every month, on the 1st and 15th of the lunar calendar, Chen Shun would vanish without leave.
Fed up with the absences, his boss threatened to fire him.
His uncle searched everywhere and finally found Chen Shun by the sea, clutching a giant seashell and chain-smoking.
Staring at the ocean, he'd sob hoarsely: "Save me! Save me!"
The seashell was coconut-sized. Normally, sharp objects like this weren't allowed, but since it couldn't be swallowed, I let it slide.
Perhaps because I permitted the seashell, Chen Shun softened toward me and started talking more.
Slowly, I began to understand the inner world of this 45-year-old man.
Chen Shun said his family had once prospered after a拆迁 (demolition for redevelopment), even building a small Western-style house. Life was carefree.
But it didn't last. He'd gotten addicted to gambling, squandered everything, and piled up debts.
The house was repossessed, forcing them back to their old brick home. His wife couldn't take it and left him and their daughter.
Every time debt collectors came, shouting threats, his daughter would cry and cling to his leg, sobbing, "Stop bullying Daddy!"
At this point, Chen Shun's eyes reddened. "I failed my daughter."
Once, when she had a fever, he couldn't even afford medicine.
That was his wake-up call. He had to turn his life around—for his daughter and father.
He needed to work. Not just to repay debts, but to support his family.
Most young men on the island fished for a living. His uncle was the only relative willing to take him aboard.
It was peak fishing season—his only way out.
But Chen Shun hesitated. Despite growing up by the sea, it was his nightmare.
As a child, he'd been fearless, leading other kids to play by the shore.
Once, while chasing a foam board swept out by the waves, he was dragged underwater. A fisherman saved him.
That near-drowning left a scar. The sea was no longer a friend—it was a monster.
After that, he avoided the ocean, losing his childhood friends.
But now, family duty forced him to face his fear.
He began practicing fishing skills at the dock, forcing himself onto boats to numb the terror.
He wanted to rebuild his life, to prove he could provide. Maybe then, his wife would return.
He clung to that hope—until the storm hit.
One July afternoon, after fishing with his uncle, the sea suddenly turned violent. Waves like thunder roared toward their boat. They barely kept it steady.
As they neared shore, Chen Shun spotted a small figure bobbing in the dark water—a drowning girl.
He told his uncle to call for help, then dove in without hesitation.
He swam for what felt like forever, his skin scraping against reefs, blood mixing with seawater.
But in the swirling currents, the girl vanished.
Helpless, he scanned the endless sea—nothing.
By the time rescuers arrived, it was too late. An hour later, they pulled her small body ashore.
Chen Shun couldn't bring himself to look. He collapsed on the sand.
As the ambulance siren faded, the voices in his head grew louder.
He'd been lucky as a child—someone saved him. But he'd failed to save this girl.
She'd been about his daughter's age.
When they zipped her into a body bag, Chen Shun broke.
He picked up a large seashell and made it her grave.
Cradling it, he pretended he'd saved her.
Wrapping it in his tattered coat, he imagined keeping her warm.
He sat facing the sea, refusing to let go.
After that, Chen Shun was never the same.
He talked to himself, threw tantrums, smashed dishes, and tossed his daughter's toys out the window.
He locked himself in his room, drinking, refusing meals, convinced someone was poisoning him.
Between sobs, he'd beg, "Save me! Save me!"
His elderly father told him the drowning wasn't his fault, but Chen Shun wouldn't listen. Desperate, the family visited temples, but nothing helped.
His daughter, confused and scared, cried constantly.
Living by the sea, Chen Shun's hallucinations worsened. He kept hearing the girl's final pleas—
"Save me! Save me!"
Eventually, he accepted the voices.
"It's fate. I've failed everyone. I deserve to die."
The sea's curse seemed to follow him ashore. The village shunned him, calling him "crazy" and "bad luck."
His father's fish stall went unsold. His daughter was bullied at school, isolated in a corner, coming home silent and tearful.
The whole family sank like the girl he couldn't save.
One night, drunk as usual, his father snatched the bottle and yelled:
"If you don't get treated, your daughter won't even go to school! Kids are scared of you—no one will be her friend!"
That finally convinced Chen Shun to get hospitalized. To prevent him from backing out, his father and village officials escorted him in.
Since his admission, neither his father nor daughter had visited—only his uncle came occasionally.
A fellow patient from Chen Shun's hometown often had family visit with gifts, and out of pity, they'd share with Chen Shun.
He envied them, longing for his own family to come.
After a group activity, he suddenly turned to me: "Dr. Lin, can you call my family to visit?"
I'd tried calling many times—either no answer or his father cursing.
But I tried again. This time, I emphasized Chen Shun's progress—how he got along with others, joined activities, even sang "Love Fight Will Win" in a ward competition.
His father softened slightly, saying his granddaughter would visit after the school term if they transferred her back to the local school.
I relayed this to Chen Shun.
"After the term… who knows how long that'll be." He shrugged and returned to his room.
His hometown roommate told me Chen Shun often talked about family, too upset to eat.
"He wants visits like other patients. But he thinks he's hurt them too much—that they don't want to see him."
He couldn't forgive himself for the pain he'd caused.
It hit me then—those cries of "Save me" were his own silent scream for help.
But who could save him?
After the nail incidents, we'd eliminated all surveillance blind spots and reinforced the ward.
Yet Chen Shun found another way.
During renovations, he stole a handful of cement, mixed it with water, and drank it.
This was far more dangerous than nails—cement could harden in his intestines, causing blockages or necrosis.
I rushed him to an external hospital for stomach pumping.
This time, even his uncle refused to help, hanging up at the mention of "swallowed something."
Desperate, I called Chen Shun's father and explained his son's desperation.
In the cold, rainy December, I finally met Chen Shun's family.
The image is seared into my memory.
His hunched, elderly father, barefoot and trembling, hands rough and calloused from labor. Beside him stood Chen Shun's daughter.
It was freezing—wet, windy, and pouring.
The old man handed me a plastic-wrapped bundle—
"I collected scrap for three months."
Inside were small bills totaling 800 yuan.
He'd saved it for his granddaughter's piano lessons, but now it would pay for Chen Shun's treatment.
I gave the money to the ER nurse, then offered the old man a cigarette, speechless.
Three generations of this family stood before me, and I couldn't bear to look.
I told him Chen Shun was cooperating now—even cutting hair for other patients to earn pocket money.
The old man said the village, knowing Chen Shun was hospitalized, had started accepting them again. He'd reopen his fish stall.
His granddaughter had switched schools, no longer bullied. Life was normalizing.
In the visitation room, the family embraced, weeping.
Later, Chen Shun asked for an envelope to save his earnings.
He counted the days until winter break, asking repeatedly: "Is it almost time?"
He didn't have to envy others anymore.
When his daughter visited, she brought a drawing—a sunny day under a tree, with her parents holding her hands.
Chen Shun hugged her tightly, tears streaming.
He handed her the envelope. "For your school supplies."
He was still trying to hold the family together.
Chen Shun said he wouldn't fight to leave anymore. He'd stay, recover, and wait for his daughter to grow up.
I understood—he was afraid. If he returned, the village might shun his family again.
Only by staying hospitalized could they live in peace.
Often, I'd see Chen Shun pacing the activity hall, clutching his daughter's drawing and the seashell.
He'd wrap both in his old coat.
On the 1st and 15th of each month, without fail, he'd sit under the hall's tree, lost in thought.
If asked, he'd smile and say:
"This shell is a little girl's grave."
The girl he couldn't save became his new nightmare, crushing him.
His life was a series of failures—fearing the sea as a child, losing friends, gambling away his family's wealth.
Just when he mustered the courage to start over, he couldn't even save one small life.
After that, "mental patient" became his label.
The village feared him, ostracized him, treating him like a ticking time bomb.
Chen Shun was a plague—if he didn't lock himself away, even his family couldn't live normally.
No one cared that it had all started with an act of heroism.