At that appointment, I half-lied about the voices. I heard voices, but they were all versions of my own voice or echoes of voices from my past. Those voices were not, I decided, the ones she was asking about. And I lied when I did not tell her about wanting to burn myself and the cook. I lied when I did not tell her about the door that had opened: The only solution is a permanent solution. My psychiatrist did not ask if there was a seismometer in my midbrain that warned of fissures that would widen into deep chasms and, eventually, into an all-consuming abyss. If she had asked about that, I might have answered honestly. It’s difficult to say.

“All that you touch You Change. All that you Change Changes you. The only lasting truth Is Change. God Is Change.”

“You believe in all this Earthseed stuff, don’t you?” “Every word,” I answered. “But . . . you made it up.”

“People forget ideas. They’re more likely to remember God—especially when they’re scared or desperate.” “Then they’re supposed to do what?” he demanded. “Read a poem?” “Or remember a truth or a comfort or a reminder to action,” I said. “People do that all the time. They reach back to the Bible, the Talmud, the Koran, or some other religious book that helps them deal with the frightening changes that happen in life.” “Change does scare most people.” “I know. God is frightening. Best to learn to cope.”

“Began to discover it and understand it,” I said. “Stumbling across the truth isn’t the same as making things up.” I wondered how many times and ways I would have to say this to new people.