By Michele Lent Hirsch in Cosmopolitan.
She’s lying on a gurney in a white room, a blanket covering her body, an IV pinched into her arm. A nurse is sticking electrodes to the side of her head, like stickers. Soon they’ll send electric currents into her brain, inducing a seizure.
She’s aware that she’s been in this hospital before. Twenty-four years ago, she was born here.
Now she’s undergoing electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), a sort of last-ditch treatment for severe depression and other psychiatric issues that will attempt to shock her out of years of intractable symptoms.
She lies on the gurney. The anesthesiologist is here now, the drugs flowing into her veins. Her last thought before the room goes black is that this won’t work—she knows it won’t. Because she’s not depressed.
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