Brain on Fire (10th Anniversary Edition): My Month of Madness Tapa blanda - 2013

Extracto

PREFACE

At first, theres just darkness and silence.

Are my eyes open? Hello?

I cant tell if Im moving my mouth or if theres even anyone to ask. Its too dark to see. I blink once, twice, three times. There is a dull foreboding in the pit of my stomach. That, I recognize. My thoughts translate only slowly into language, as if emerging from a pot of molasses. Word by word the questions come: Where am I? Why does my scalp itch? Where is everyone? Then the world around me comes gradually into view, beginning as a pinhole, its diameter steadily expanding. Objects emerge from the murk and sharpen into focus. After a moment I recognize them: TV, curtain, bed.

I know immediately that I need to get out of here. I lurch forward, but something snaps against me. My fingers find a thick mesh vest at my waist holding me to the bed like awhats the word?straitjacket. The vest connects to two cold metal side rails. I wrap my hands around the rails and pull up, but again the straps dig into my chest, yielding only a few inches. Theres an unopened window to my right that looks onto a street. Cars, yellow cars. Taxis. I am in New York. Home.

Before the relief finishes washing over me, though, I see her. The purple lady. She is staring at me.

Help! I shout. Her expression never changes, as if I hadnt said a thing. I shove myself against the straps again.

Dont you go doing that, she croons in a familiar Jamaican accent.

Sybil? But it couldnt be. Sybil was my childhood babysitter. I havent seen her since I was a child. Why would she choose today to reenter my life? Sybil? Where am I?

The hospital. You better calm down. Its not Sybil.

It hurts.

The purple lady moves closer, her breasts brushing against my face as she bends across me to unhook the restraints, starting on the right and moving to the left. With my arms free, I instinctually raise my right hand to scratch my head. But instead of hair and scalp, I find a cotton hat. I rip it off, suddenly angry, and raise both hands to inspect my head further. I feel rows and rows of plastic wires. I pluck one outwhich makes my scalp stingand lower it to eye level; its pink. On my wrist is an orange plastic band. I squint, unable to focus on the words, but after a few seconds, the block letters sharpen: FLIGHT RISK.

Reseñas en medios

Citas

• New York Times Book Review, 09/15/2013, Page 32