There is too much psychotic alpha energy in this dangerous psych unit.

I was diagnosed with retrograde amnesia for the mid-1990s after I was hung by correctional officers at L.A. County Jail while on suicide watch. The officers demanded I write a confession, promising they’d make my death “easy.” I was found hanging with a contraband sheet, a pencil, and a confession letter in August 1997.

Now I have delusions that fill in the blank periods of time, creating a false reality. I also see superimposed, translucent images across my entire visual field. Years ago, I was forced to take the powerful psychotropic Prolixin. The psychiatrist decided to “infuse” me for life, forcing 150 mg intramuscular shots every three weeks plus 40 mg orally every day, for years, until my symptoms decreased. Recently, I needed surgery to remove crystallized cysts caused by Prolixin decanoate from 20 years ago. That infusion made the drug time-released for life. From chaos, I hope order will rise and correct this abuse.

I probably need to read The Turner Diaries, along with The Poor Man’s James Bond — a book I helped produce and that one of my employees sold to Oklahoma City bomber Terry Nichols. Lately, I find myself empathizing with people branded as vigilantes. I was even a prison roommate with New York Judge Sol Wachtler, who was once set to replace Attorney General Janet Reno — the same Reno who mishandled Waco, Texas, and the Branch Davidians.

My perceptions are strange. Real objects and people often appear outlined in orange hues, filled in with cartoonish color. I’ve never experimented with recreational drugs, but after my brain injury and stroke, I’ve never regained a healthy mind. I suffer mild dyslexia and sometimes struggle with basic memory and concepts. The symptoms grow worse as time goes on.

A few weeks ago, an officer slipped me a note asking if I knew about producers of snuff films — movies where someone is killed during sex. Years back, I did encounter tapes in Las Vegas, at a store called Alternatives, run by gay men. The tapes showed Latin American boys and men in sex acts, apparently being killed. I gave those tapes to Bob Rouen on Royal Viking Way, who rewarded me with three months’ free rent for my store. Later, he told me the boys weren’t actually killed — they used “magic” props to simulate death scenes.

The Pentax camera used to photograph my wife’s alleged abuse was never inventoried by police, even though they seized thousands of photos from our apartment and stores. None of those photos came from a Pentax. No one who ever saw my wife with me recalls bruises on her face, and her story about abuse has changed drastically since the 1990s. She got away with multiple murders. I will say clearly: I never physically or psychologically abused my wife.

In 2000, a Nevada state psychologist claimed I was faking mental illness. The report relied on a psych tech who was related to my victim (Ginger Rios), a clear conflict. The Clark County D.A., Edward Kaine, also tried to prove I was faking, but not one person from the state hospital would testify against me. I am mentally ill. Even when I was arrested in 1991 for stealing millions in computers (San Jose Mercury News, March 31, 1991 — they spelled my name Jacobson), witnesses said I was bizarre and had wild mood swings — even back in my teens.

Around 2010, I heard there were TV shows parodying my life: Burn Notice and Chuck. Incredible, I say!

I also have a rock-solid alibi for the last two weeks of December 1995: I was having an affair with a triple-A Hollywood actress. Yet in a delusional state I falsely confessed to killing a man on Christmas Day 1995. I told that story to FBI agents in Carson City years ago and again in Phoenix recently — confessions made under coercion.

I wasn’t even properly Mirandized. They handed me the warning, but I couldn’t read it — agents had taken my glasses during transport and never gave them back. I was also drugged with psychiatric and cardiac meds that distorted my perception. That’s why my so-called confessions were bogus. Fruit of the poisonous tree.

A correctional officer I trust even laughed about it, saying he knew I had been having an affair with an actress at the time. He also knew about my honeymoon with my wife in Atlantic City at Trump’s Taj Mahal — in a comped suite during a porn convention. Stormy Daniels! And she wasn’t the only one. There was also a Russian diplomat — a honey trap.

I need a real attorney, someone like Kunstler, who can own the courtroom and make juries believe. Public defenders don’t have that presence. Riddles and circles only confuse. Ugly goes with fugly. Most good lawyers are good-looking, not slobs.