Thirty-five years is too long to carry a wound that still hurts from time to time. I’m talking about my first experience as a “mental patient“ in 1977.
I’m determined to put that pain behind me this year.
Over time, I’ve come to realize that only one person who treated me at Beth Israel Deaconess Hospital in Boston was malicious. The rest just didn’t know how to treat me.
I Don’t Hate Well-Meaning People Who Just Don’t Know
The staff was following a treatment plan, and what they knew