Whether I like to admit it or not, I am too prejudice against people with mental illness.
Sitting in the lobby of the building, waiting for the case manager or for my therapist to arrive, I am seated with other patients who look funny, smell funny, talk funny and more. Some come inside with dirty clothes or wild hair and talk incoherent blurbs that only make sense to them. They're not the kind of people who I would meet in a restaurant to eat across from, where I doubt they have concerns about using a fork properly.
Perhaps I don't like being faced with a life that much more thrown off track.
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