Almost everyone else on the ward had a yellow bracelet signifying that they’d been undergoing shock therapy; everyone else had meaningful and significant problems that could be classified as genuine illness. I was just an imposter who’d overindulged in self-pity and accidentally landed myself in the ER. After all, most of my friends since college had, at some point, considered themselves at least a little depressed, at least a little OCD, and, in the case of the majority of my female friends, at least dabblers in disordered eating. Here I was again, I thought, copying. Assimilating. And worse,
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