Here, I'd like to post another excerpt from my memoir, Left of the Dial, that details my first meeting with the psychiatrist on the ward. In 1987, little was known about recovery outcomes, and I was left alone upon discharge to struggle with the truth about what happened. I'll begin in media res.
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I insert my bamboo legs and arms into jeans and a tee shirt and walk down the hall. I get in line to swallow the curious liquid. It tastes like honey. Why am...
