Daily, my thoughts grew more disorganized. I’d start a sentence, then be unable to remember where I was going with it. I began to stammer severely, to the point where I could barely finish a thought. No one could stand to listen to me talk; some of the patients made fun of me. Disengaged from my surroundings, I sat in the dayroom for hours at a time, jiggling my legs (I couldn’t sit still, no matter how I tried), not noticing who came in or out, not speaking at all. I was convinced I was evil. Or maybe I was crazy—after all, I was sitting in a mental hospital, wasn’t I? Evil, crazy; evil,
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