Just like someone without mental illness only more so

Someone asked Mark Vonnegut how he is different from someone without mental illness. He responded, “I'm just like someone without mental illness, only more so.” Instantly, I have a new favorite book title of all time. I found myself unable to approach this book with a neutral stance. Nothing wrong with that; it just makes my star rating idiosyncratic, influenced as it is by shared moreness/excess/whatever you want to call it.

In this memoir, Mark Vonnegut broadly details the psychotic breaks that resulted in a diagnosis of schizophrenia, which was later amended to a diagnosis of manic depression, which is now termed bipolar disorder in a bid to reduce stigma. (His response to that effort: “Good luck.” I loled.)

He also includes meditations on being a doctor, the role of art, being Kurt Vonnegut's son (which does not seem easy), and America's broken medical system. Comparisons to his father must be frustrating, but there are moments of undeniable symmetry in their sardonicism and they brought me true joy.

Some choice quotes:

On the indignity of not getting admitted to the good mental hospital:
Without prelude or explanation, I'm in four-point restraints in my boxer shorts on a gourney of the hospital where I once trained and currently still work. I'm [a Harvard Medical School] alum, HMS faculty. . . and I didn't even get into McLean's?

On the cruelty of his illness:
I was so quickly in tatters, what was the good of all that overachievement? It should have taken longer for my proud crust of wellness to be so utterly gone.

On art:
Without art you're stuck with yourself as you are and life as you think it is.