The Lie of Mental Illness
Language: en
Three years after being institutionalized, my psychiatrist husband Chad finally brought me home—only to find Mary and their son living there. “When are you telling her about the divorce?” Mary asked. “Not yet. I don’t want to trigger a relapse,” Chad muttered, avoiding my gaze as he hugged her. Hidden in the hall, I listened until numbness set in. Entering the master bedroom, I found unfamiliar furniture and a huge family portrait above the bed. A bitter laugh escaped me. From beneath the overturned oak wardrobe came faint whimpers. A tiny, bloodied hand clawed through the gap. I…