Another Memoir Excerpt:

Micheal M took me to several psychiatrists and out of those, there was one that used to fall asleep when I talked. And there was one that could have gotten their little psychiatric pants sued off of them. Micheal M wanted to sue but I pictured myself in court explaining my defense which was utter humiliation and I couldn't decide if people with brain injuries became easily humiliated. And this was because the psychiatrist laughed at me. Not in my face, but at me.
“I, just, can't, stop, crying,” I sniffed, “I want to, but I can't stop.”
“Sheila,” she bit her lower lip, “You've been taking the 80 milligrams of Prozac I prescribed?”
“Yes. And I can't explain why, like nothing's exactly wrong, but no matter what, I just,” sniff, sniff, “can't, stop, crying, see?”
“Excuse me.” She ran from the room. She, my psychiatrist, was in the next room talking to her cohorts. Why did she think I couldn't hear? I heard laughter. It was just her at first. And then they all joined in. And then they all started howling. It was obvious their laughter was at my expense, the patient. How could they do that with me in the next room?
My revenge was to choose another psychiatrist. I wouldn't let her and her colleagues get their jollies because of my awful depression.