Publisher's Synopsis
To them, I was nothing more than Patient Number 0030231.
In 2018, I was misdiagnosed with schizoaffective disorder and involuntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital, where they jacked me so full of anti-psychotics that I could barely put two coherent thoughts together. The misdiagnosis happened because I was belligerent while hallucinating on drugs I'd chosen to put in my body. This was one of my key experiences that guided me toward the realization that the consequences of my drug use were often vaster than I had ever bargained for. I was in Stone Crest for a month, spending my 38th birthday drooling on myself and longing for fresh air. About the only two things I could do in residential psychiatric treatment were to be kind to my fellow inmates... and write.Here is the writing.
This is not some intricate work of poetic genius. This book is simply an experimental artifact from one of the most desolate, discombobulated points of my life. Even then, underneath all the numbness and insanity, I was still a hurting human being, bidding for healing, and striving to be heard and seen through all the noise and darkness. -ALH
