Hello to All That: A Memoir of Zoloft, War, and Peace
His own chemistry was his worst enemy, and it took John Falk to some very strange places—from Garden City, Long Island, to sniper-infested Sarajevo during the Bosnian bloodbath. But through it all, in the face of chronic depression, Falk kept reaching out for the life he'd always wanted. Hello to All That is his story—crazed, comic, poignant, suspenseful, and hopeful.

1130525956
Hello to All That: A Memoir of Zoloft, War, and Peace
His own chemistry was his worst enemy, and it took John Falk to some very strange places—from Garden City, Long Island, to sniper-infested Sarajevo during the Bosnian bloodbath. But through it all, in the face of chronic depression, Falk kept reaching out for the life he'd always wanted. Hello to All That is his story—crazed, comic, poignant, suspenseful, and hopeful.

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Hello to All That: A Memoir of Zoloft, War, and Peace

Hello to All That: A Memoir of Zoloft, War, and Peace

by John Falk
Hello to All That: A Memoir of Zoloft, War, and Peace

Hello to All That: A Memoir of Zoloft, War, and Peace

by John Falk

Paperback(First Edition)

$23.00 
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Overview

His own chemistry was his worst enemy, and it took John Falk to some very strange places—from Garden City, Long Island, to sniper-infested Sarajevo during the Bosnian bloodbath. But through it all, in the face of chronic depression, Falk kept reaching out for the life he'd always wanted. Hello to All That is his story—crazed, comic, poignant, suspenseful, and hopeful.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780312425630
Publisher: Picador
Publication date: 12/27/2005
Edition description: First Edition
Pages: 304
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.67(d)

About the Author

John Falk is a law school graduate and freelance journalist. An article he wrote for Details magazine, entitled "Shot Through the Heart," became an HBO movie and won a Peabody Award for Best Cable Movie of the Year. He lives in New York City.

Read an Excerpt

From Hello to All That:
There had been a point in my life when my greatest goal had been simply to make it to the next morning. I was severely depressed, completely empty, no connection to anything. It was like being trapped in a glass jar. By 1991, I was living in my parents' attic. I had cut myself off from everyone I knew, slept all day, and spent my nights watching late-night Oprah reruns.

I cannot say how it was that I came to find myself rummaging through a crawl space that night looking for that old shotgun, only that the idea had become irresistible. Perhaps I was tempted just to see if holding it would somehow change things. When I found it, it didn't disappoint. It felt solid, powerful, like a magic wand. Holding it, I didn't feel like a trapped rat anymore. Here was a way out. But I still had enough fight that night to put it away. Its day was in the future, though. I had entered the endgame.

That night I lay on the roof for hours, crying, not for me, but for my family, especially my mother, who always made me promise her that I would, no matter what, hang on. "Trust me," she would say. "It will work out." But now I realized that I was going to have to break that promise. At dawn, I finally crawled back inside my bedroom. Sometime later I realized I couldn't quit before I gave her a chance. I went downstairs and, trembling, I asked my mother the simplest and most difficult of favors: Please help me.

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