This is not a novel. It is a journal — a raw record of watching myself, kept while coming out of schizophrenia.
When I started writing it I did not yet know that name. I thought I was describing a cult. A closed system, a master, sheep, a wall. Only later did I see that the wall stood mainly inside my own head — and that the state I lived in for two years has a diagnosis. I have not gone back and corrected those first entries. They stand as they were written: from the inside, still without a name.
Schizophrenia does not look the way people
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