I’m sitting in my college dorm, and it’s the middle of the night—when nothing good happens. Certainly, no good comes from being alone when your mind attacks you. I remember two things: I wrote a poem about the faces I was seeing and the voices I was hearing. I ran out of my room because I thought it was possessed.
The friends who comforted me that night seemed neither concerned nor alarmed by what I’d told them. It was convenient that the campus legend was our hall was haunted. I could admit my fear by blaming it on logical reason (because ghosts are way more logical than a mental breakdown). No one needed to know the voices came from inside my brain.