I’d like to say the New Year began the way it usually does: I wake up in my west side apartment with my cat Hemingway at a reasonable hour becuase I likely walked home from a friend’s house shortly ...

“Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays,” I croon, strumming a borrowed guitar. I’m attempting to be quiet enough to not overshadow others’ conversations while still setting a merry vibe ...

“Are you a cutter?” the medical aide asked me, gearing to strap a blood pressure monitor around my upper arm to take my vitals at 11 o’clock one evening. I had entered the psychiatric unit, or as it ...