Midnight. I feel the impulse to pity myself for having schizophrenia, but I also think that being honest is its own reward. Somehow, the truth will set me free, whatever other problems life heaps in my lap. I remember the way people at P—Health were rather awestruck to have a schizophrenic in their midst. I was the only person with the illness in the dual diagnosis group. Yet I was the smartest person in the room. I still loathe the memory of how supercilious those people were. The only person I liked was my young psychiatrist, Iris, who was Dominican and more genuine than the others. The group therapist was involved in some strange practices stemming from an old German man who had worked among Zulus. It was called family constellations. Some critics have called it “quantum quackery.” Whatever you call it, it didn’t sound kosher to me. More like irresponsibility. The last thing a person with schizophrenia needs is additional hokeyness to take them even farther from reality. It just proves that a great many people can’t distinguish between imagination and reality. Those with schizophrenia are not the only ones who ought to be on medication.

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