This is The Guardian.

Red by Dan Crane and produced by Hadi Moia.

I'm lying in bed when I hear the commotion.

I peer through the doorway of my room and right outside, the new guy is getting in Ruiz's face.

There's a phone right outside the door.

One of those sturdy metal payphones like one you'd see on a street corner.

And Ruiz, a gentle older man with shoulders stooped by the demoralization of his N3 laps and hospitalization,

is just trying to talk to his family.

But the new guy has been manic and pacing since he arrived a few hours ago, and he won't take no for an answer.

I watch the new guy stalk the other way across the doorway, muttering to himself, menacing even in retreat.

Then a warning shout echoes from much too far in the distance, and he appears once again, flying near horizontal to tackle Ruiz, dragging him off the phone.

The staff quickly take him down.

Thankfully, no one is seriously hurt.

Shaken, I try to focus on my journal, but my mind races.

I'm 29 years old, riding notes in a sloppy felt tip pen.

No ball points are allowed.

Trying to understand how I went from being a newly minted doctor and a psychiatry residency program at Columbia University in New York

to a psychiatric patient at Bellevue, the city's notorious public hospital.

Bellevue is synonymous with the most challenging cases of mental illness.

And now I'm locked on the dual diagnosis ward of the 20th floor near the top of the building,

where they put people who have substance use problems alongside other mental disorders.

I've already recognized some of the faculty from when I applied here for residency, and I know from the tour I took as an applicant

...