I broke down crying, pleading with the therapist that told me to believe that I wasn't violent, or sociopathic, or "just plain evil." To believe that even though I might be subhuman, I still had some personhood and dignity. Swearing that I'd be good, I'd do anything they wanted, if they would just please please please please not make me go back on the risperidone.
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"Alas, our dried voices when we whisper together are quiet and meaningless, as wind in dry grass, or rats' feet over broken glass in our dry cellar." --TS Eliot, "The Hollow Men"