Go/No-Go—How Mental Health Research Took a Wrong Turn: An Interview with Author Marianne Apostolides

Marianne Apostolides is the award-winning author of eight books, four of which have been translated and published internationally. She is a two-time recipient of the Chalmers Arts Fellowship and winner of the K.M. Hunter Award for Literature. Her books include I Can’t Get You Out of My Mind, Deep Salt Water, Voluptuous Pleasure: The Truth about the Writing Life, and Swim. Moving across fiction, memoir, and literary nonfiction, her work often returns to the body, desire, memory, and the stories we tell about ourselves.

Her latest book is Go/No-Go: A Journey Into the Research and Treatment of Mental Health Disorders, which has been called “required reading for anyone with a stake in mental health care.”

In the book, Marianne brings her skills as a writer to contemporary psychiatry and neuroscience. She reads the research closely, following new approaches to treatment that include neuromodulation, digital therapeutics, pharmaceuticals, and psychedelics. She also traces the institutional pressures and conflicts of interest shaping the field.

Throughout the book, she pays particular attention to language. She listens for the metaphors that organize the research and considers the assumptions they carry, often without being examined, about the mind, mental distress, and what researchers are able to see.

Marianne has described the book as beginning in 2022, during a period of creative and emotional crisis, when she encountered a research article that changed how she understood the human mind. In the prologue, she writes that we have “reached a dead end” in our current approach to mental health disorders. The book traces how we arrived there and where we might turn instead.

The transcript below has been edited for length and clarity. Listen to the audio of the interview here.

Justin Karter: Some of the themes in this book have also been present in your fiction and literary nonfiction. But reporting on psychiatry in this way is also a change of pace for you as a writer. Can you take us back to 2022? How did the book begin?

Marianne Apostolides:

The short answer is that COVID happened, and my eating disorder got really bad. My eating disorder is something I’ve grappled with for decades. My first book is actually about struggling through it. I wrote that book in my twenties, when it was all still fresh.

At the time, I was supposed to be writing a science fiction novel. I had received a fellowship to work on science fiction, but I could not settle enough to drop down to the place where I could conceive of an imaginative world. I was so inside my anxiety, following the news in three-minute increments for developments with COVID, that I just could not settle enough to write fiction.

The eating disorder was bad, so I did what I usually do with my writing. I used it as a way to engage with what was happening in my world. At that moment, what was happening was the eating disorder and this sense of being out of control.

I thought I was going to write a series of articles about new treatments for eating disorders. It was going to be very straightforward: This is where the field is now. Pretty rapidly, I realized that I wanted to broaden the project to new treatments for mental health disorders in general, in part because of the transdiagnostic approach, which we can talk about later.

But what is more salient at this point is that, over the course of six to nine months, as I was writing journalistically and very straightforwardly about these new treatments, I started to have this creeping sense that something was really not right.

That happened as I did more research and read the studies quite deeply in order to interview neuroscientists. I would read their research, and then read the research they referenced, and keep digging deeper. I began to see how the research was actually conducted, what the findings actually were, and how that differed from the way the findings were portrayed.

I became quite disturbed. I realized that this was the story I had to tell: the research practices underlying these new treatments, and the assumptions within that research about who we are and why we struggle.

Karter: You bring your eating disorder into the book, often testing the treatments you encounter against your own understanding of yourself and your experience. Early in the book, you describe the eating disorder as a beast you have had to learn to ride. You also suggest that this same force compels you to write. Is that what you’re speaking to here?

Apostolides: That came up in an interview with Helen Mayberg, who’s a brilliant woman. Her work focuses on deep brain stimulation for mental health disorders, mainly depression. She told me that many of her patients—everybody, she said—have a metaphor, a pet metaphor, for their disorder.

I realized that, yes, I definitely have a metaphor for my eating disorder. I imagine it as this beast, this panther-like, feline thing. To extend the metaphor, I need to learn how to ride it—not kill it, cage it, or tame it, but ride it—or else I’ll get mauled.

Whatever force drives me at times to binge, and at other times toward obsessive restriction, is a force I can’t excise from my body or my psyche. This is me. This is with me. I need to learn how to harness it. For me, that’s writing. That’s what I’ve found.

Karter: That comes through in the book. One reason it grabbed me is that I felt pulled along page by page, following you as you went deeper into the research and then sat down with the researchers.

Maybe that’s a good place to begin digging into what you encountered when you read that first research article and started interviewing people developing neuroscience-based treatments. What was the story, in its different forms, that researchers in psychiatry and neuroscience were bringing to the public?

Apostolides: It’s the idea that we can decode or decipher what is “dysfunctional,” “malfunctioning,” or “suboptimal”—those are their terms—about either your neural circuitry or the algorithm of your decision-making.

Through these incredible new tools, whether it’s fMRI, EEG, or AI and computational modeling, we will be able to pinpoint precisely what is wrong, usually with your decision-making process or with how you perceive the world and respond to it. Then we can change it. We can fix it by targeting that specific malfunction. That was the story.

Then you dig deeper and ask: How do you determine the biomarker or neural circuitry that is abnormal?

They have tests that they give people, one of which is the Go/No-Go test, which is where I got the title of the book. You might have people in a lab taking a facial emotion recognition test, looking at actors’ faces that are supposedly aggressive or sad. What happens in your brain when you look at an aggressive face? Do you have an abnormal anxiety response?

The idea is that they can separate people into biotypes using a biomarker and then give you the exact right treatment for you.

Karter: You look closely at what it is like to be a person in these experiments, the assumptions built into them, and the questionable results that can follow.

Apostolides: I think about the discrepancy between the ambiguity of what is actually happening when a person sits in one of these clinical trials and the highly technical language used to describe it. You see these images of the brain and hear, “Look, the brain is lighting up in this way.” It seems so scientific, concrete, and precise. But actually, this is a person being slid into one of these terrifying machines. It is very loud. They are given a task, and who knows what is happening for that person?

I think about the self-reflection people might have: Why are they making me do this? This is humiliating. That came up a lot in tasks involving eating disorders, alcohol use, or cocaine use.

For example, there is what is called the multi-item buffet, or laboratory meal. In some studies, a person with binge-eating disorder or anorexia is put in an MRI scanner, given certain tasks, and shown images of a cake, a thin woman, a woman with obesity, and then a picture of themselves. All of these images are coming at you. In other studies, the person might be put in a room with 11,000 calories of food and told, “Let yourself go.”

I think about the woman sitting there. Sometimes they do this with teenagers. Then they might put a key on the table and say, “This is the key to a bathroom. No one else has access to this bathroom while you’re here.”

I read that and think: Let’s examine what is happening here. In the name of science, you have put this person through a humiliating, traumatizing situation. You have told them to binge. You have given them permission to binge. You have also implicitly given them permission to purge. Then you leave them alone in a room for 45 minutes and watch them through a one-way mirror.

It elicits this combination of anger and sadness. My own experience with an eating disorder means that I relate to it, but this also happens in research involving substance use, alcohol use disorder, or cocaine use.

Often, these studies are done with veterans. In the United States, veterans receive public health care, and there are research hospitals connected to the system that provide care but also conduct research. Many veterans are struggling with PTSD or alcohol use, and they are given tasks such as the monetary incentive delay task. It is like a gambling task: Do you want five dollars now or ten dollars in a week? Do you want five dollars now or a 50 percent chance of getting ten dollars in a week? You get all these questions very rapidly, and you have to choose and choose.

Then the researchers will say something like, “We put a bag of money nearby so they could see that something real was at stake.”

All I can think is: These people were in a war. They know what is at stake. They understand real stakes. And here you are making them go through this rigmarole.

Then the conclusion from some of these tasks is that there need to be “clear and contingent negative consequences” if people relapse into using drugs or alcohol. Clear and contingent negative consequences. What might those be? What are you proposing here? It is so dehumanizing.

For me, as a creative writer, I immediately enter the human story. I imagine what the experience is like for the person in that clinical trial. That seems to be beyond the capacity of the neuroscientists who are, ironically, supposedly trying to help us psychologically. It was just circles and circles.

Karter: You set out to write a science fiction novel. In some ways, essays like the one about the multi-item buffet read that way. It reminded me of George Saunders’s “Escape from Spiderhead,” his science fiction story about people being used in pharmaceutical experiments.

That was the point in the middle of the book when I thought, How did we get here? This is the dead end you are describing. The subjectivity of the patient or research participant is neglected, even at the level of human rights or basic kindness. But it is also neglected scientifically. What else might the person be thinking or feeling at that moment that could change the results of the fMRI study? They might feel humiliation or anger, but there is no acknowledgment of their inner experience.

At the same time, throughout the book, you are remarkably generous to the researchers. You lay out the logic that leads them to design and conduct these studies. You trace much of it back to what you call the “thirsty monkey” study, which established a particular way of thinking about research. Can you tell us about the thirsty monkey and how we have all ended up thinking of ourselves as thirsty monkeys?

Apostolides: I came to that study midway through the research, when I had accumulated all of this material and had no idea how I was going to turn it into a cohesive narrative. It was a very important study published in Science in the late 1990s, and it gave me the whole pathway for how I was going to tell the story.

Nobody calls it the “thirsty monkey” study but me, by the way. The researchers do not call it that.

Basically, three research scientists walk into a room. We could start there. There is a computational scientist, a behavioral scientist, and someone who works with animals. I am not sure what their exact titles were. The three researchers were Wolfram Schultz, P. Read Montague, and Peter Dayan.

They put an electrode in a monkey and gave the monkey a task. The task was: If you see a light, push a lever, and you will get a drop of sweet liquid. They made the monkey a little thirsty to increase the value of the reward. That is where I got the term “thirsty monkey.”

They looked at the neural circuitry, particularly the dopamine circuits, when the monkey anticipated the reward and when the monkey received it. From there, they derived an algorithm to show what was happening in the brain.

They then took the basic research Wolfram Schultz had done and created a computer model with what I call a Pac-Man-like creature. That is what it looks like in the Science paper. It is like an orb. This creature has three neurons. By creating this very rudimentary computational model, they could show where the creature would move when it anticipated a reward and how it would respond when it anticipated a reward but did not receive it.

Lo and behold, they said that the computational model mirrored the firing of dopamine neurons in the brain. The conclusion was that the brain operates as if it is governed by an algorithm. The brain is a computational organ. We can crack the algorithmic code that governs our behavior by understanding our anticipation of reward and our response when that reward is received or denied.

From there, a whole new funding model emerged at the National Institute of Mental Health. It directed researchers toward what NIMH wanted them to study and what it would fund through millions and millions of dollars in grants, billions over time. A great deal of that was based on this notion of computational psychiatry, which began with the thirsty monkey study.

In fact, one of those three researchers coined the term “computational psychiatry” while talking with Tom Insel, who was then the head of NIMH. It really is remarkable. Again and again, I would encounter one of those three researchers in studies that seemed very far removed from the original work. Even in psychedelic research, there was Peter Dayan. I thought, I was not expecting him to appear in a study involving psilocybin, but here he is.

That study and that concept have governed so much neuroscience research since the late 1990s.

Karter: You end up in this place: If researchers can identify a neural circuit or an algorithm within a person that corresponds to problematic behavior, then perhaps they can develop a neuromodulation treatment, whether that is a brain implant or TMS, that alters the circuit, changes the pattern of firing, and provides some relief or changes the behavior. Maybe it could even intervene before the person knows they are about to act, which is a little creepy.

Apostolides: That’s right, yeah.

Karter: That logic leads to the question: How can I provoke someone’s eating-disorder response while monitoring their brain? If I can do that, perhaps I can develop the exact treatment that will prevent them from engaging in that behavior in the future. And that is where we lose sight of what we are doing to the person in that moment. Is that right?

Apostolides: Right. And not only that. On a humanistic level, it is abhorrent to me, or at least deeply distressing, because you are not seeing the person sitting before you. But even on a scientific level, by the terms the researchers themselves set out, it fails.

One could argue that, in the name of science, a few people will undergo a traumatic experience like the multi-item buffet, but we will gain so much knowledge about the brain and develop a treatment that helps thousands of people. In theory, one could make that argument. Except it doesn’t even work scientifically.

fMRI studies are far more imprecise than the scientific community acknowledged until recently. That has now been acknowledged, yet those older studies are still cited in the literature and used as the basis for biomarkers. Many of these studies are not reliable unless they include hundreds, if not thousands, of people, which they generally do not.

Then there is computational modeling. We have this new algorithm. We can predict suicidality or predict relapse into alcohol use. Except, over and over again, they find that the model cannot predict what happens in a sample different from the one used to develop it.

Again and again, it doesn’t work. Yet somehow excuses are made, or reasons are found, for why the endpoint was not what they anticipated. It is bewildering how incapable the scientific community can be of self-reflection and redirection.

Karter: At several points in the book, you raise these questions with the researchers and describe the back-and-forth pull you feel in conversation with them. There is often a moment when they can no longer talk only about the science or the experiment and have to turn to metaphor, whether it is a handbrake or something else, to explain what they think might be happening in the brain. What metaphors did you hear researchers using?

Apostolides: I have to say, I really loved interviewing the neuroscientists, and they were very generous with their time. In many ways, they were all brilliant people. I don’t think any one of them was cynically pursuing this line of research. I think there was a genuine desire to help people. Yet I came to see the whole approach as completely wrongheaded. I felt this tremendous tension.

I truly wanted to understand what they were doing and what they thought they were doing. Then, as I became increasingly disturbed by it, I still wanted to understand so that I could put it in context and allow people to see more fully what neuroscience is doing and what a critique of neuroscience might be. I did not want to give only my own perspective. I wanted to allow the neuroscientists to speak and to enter into dialogue with them.

In terms of metaphors, one that comes to mind early in the book is Alik Widge, who works on deep brain stimulation. He thinks of it as someone riding a bicycle while you keep a hand on the bike and help them along. Deep brain stimulation does not move you by itself, but it gives you that extra boost when you need it.

I can more readily think of the metaphors I used to describe how ridiculous I found some of their work. I could give you some of those.

But I think the point is that science has to find language to communicate what it is doing. There is already a metaphoric move in translating what is happening in the brain into words like “malfunctional” or “suboptimal.” You move from millions of neurons firing, to an algorithm, which is itself a mathematical metaphor, to the statement that your decision-making process is suboptimal. These are all moves in language. They are all translations.

I think there is a misconception that science is telling us some ground-level truth. It isn’t. It is telling a story, and it tells that story through metaphor. It translates biological mechanisms, or at least biological processes, into language that contains values, judgments, and presumptions. We don’t see that because we think scientists possess the knowledge, and we defer to them.

Karter: Early in the book, when you are interviewing Helen Mayberg about deep brain stimulation, she describes patients reaching for metaphors to explain how the stimulation has changed their experience. She then has to decide whether one patient’s metaphor is a synonym for another’s—whether they are describing the same change.

But that is not quite how metaphor works. You cannot simply substitute one metaphor for another. A writer knows that metaphors are not necessarily equivalent, and neither are the experiences people are trying to capture through them. That way of treating metaphor seems unable to do justice to the richness of experience.

Apostolides: But metaphor gets at the underlying dynamics. It gives us a way to go beneath the surface of language and reach what is happening underneath. When you say, “This is like that,” you are saying that beneath these two disparate things is some underlying force or movement.

As a writer, I found that very useful. I used far more metaphors in this book than in my previous books because I wanted to get away from some of the scientific language and say to people, Okay, let me give you a metaphor so this makes sense.

Take data-driven computational psychiatry and digital phenotyping. The idea is that we will gather reams of data. Some of it might come from electronic health records or genetic testing, but it can also come from your phone: how much you walk, how much you sleep, how often you are with other people or alone. Do you leave your house? Your geolocation data might tell researchers not only whether you are around other people, but whether you are in a bar or a bakery.

We are going to hoover up all this data and produce a model of where the algorithm of your mind is malfunctioning. Then we are going to treat it. That is data-driven computational psychiatry.

What matters to me about this model of treating mental health disorders is that we cannot really know what the underlying problem is, because it is all happening inside an AI “black box”. Researchers may not know how the AI arrived at its conclusion. They simply know the conclusion, and you are expected to follow it.

That is the opposite of going to a therapist and talking things through, trying to decipher the fears or desires driving your surface behavior, taking them apart, and coming to a greater knowledge of yourself. It is at the other end of the spectrum. We are going to take all this data and then—bing—out comes a diagnosis, a prognosis, and a treatment regimen.

I was trying to find a way to describe that. One of the people I interviewed explained data-driven psychiatry in a way that was accurate but somehow missed the point. I thought: It is like telling the story of Oedipus but failing to mention that the person he sleeps with is his mother.

Everything the researcher said may have been right, but he was missing the heart of it—the essence, the meat of it.

That is one example of how I tried to use metaphor. I was also trying to bring some levity into what could otherwise have been a very heavy book. I wanted to create moments of lightness and some space for readers to rest, absorb what they had read, and not feel bombarded by either the science or their own sadness, anger, or whatever response the science might elicit.

Karter: There are also moments when you speak directly to us as readers. You tell us what you are feeling, where you have decided to go next, what you have chosen to include, or how you have rewritten a section to do greater justice to something. You bring us into that conversation with you.

Apostolides: In many ways, the book is a quest narrative—a classic quest narrative. What drives it is my desire to understand what neuroscientists are doing and what they think they are doing, because I am baffled by it.

I needed to keep learning because my starting point was that the neuroscientists knew. They were going to help us. Then my presumption of the security and authority of science was shattered.

The quest became: I have to understand what neuroscientists are doing and how we can move forward with a sense of wholeness toward a new scientific paradigm or research agenda that actually aims to help people through their struggles. Because the struggles are real.

Karter: Could you say more about what it was like to write this book? You began in a period of crisis, looking to neuroscientists at the frontier of the field for answers about eating disorders and possible treatments. Then there was a disillusionment. Your own experience and family history began pressing against the accounts and metaphors the researchers were offering. What was that back-and-forth like for you?

Apostolides: I’ve written seven other books. This was by far the hardest literary experience I have ever undergone. It took years, and it tested me psychologically.

There were times when I was deeply disturbed. I write about one interview in particular. We got off Zoom, and I immediately binged. I just could not handle how upset I felt.

In that moment, honestly, my thought was: Maybe they’re right. I can’t stop this behavior. Maybe there is something wrong with my brain, and they could just fix it.

But, of course, I had also just undergone the very stressful experience of that interview and the research surrounding it. That was why the behavior came forward.

For me, the book helped solidify some of those intangible questions about the self and the brain. What is driving us? If every part of me wants to stop a behavior and I cannot stop, what is that division? Who is “me”?

The book helped me stay with those questions. I clearly don’t have answers. I think they are unanswerable questions, and I would be wary of anyone who said they did have the answers.

What I come down to in the end is that scientific research, research on mental health, and the treatments we offer people have to connect people with themselves and with others in human-to-human relationships. They also have to return a sense of agency to the person.

With so many of these neuroscience treatments, we are asked to cede our agency to the scientist, the pill, the transcranial magnetic stimulation, or whatever it might be. The focus is not on settling into your body, within a family and a world, in relationship with other people and your environment. That, to me, is ground zero for where we need to be moving.

This is a frightening time. It is also a time of tremendous flux and the destruction of institutions we assumed would always be there. I think there is an opportunity to reset the research agenda and refocus mental health research and treatment on returning agency and situating care within communities, rather than within scientific institutions that claim to tell us why we struggle and how they can fix us.

Karter: I also hear a political dimension to the book. It began during COVID, when arguments over scientific authority, public funding, and trust in scientists and pharmaceutical interventions became especially intense in the United States.

You are suggesting that enormous amounts of public money may have been spent in ways that did not meaningfully improve the lives of people who were suffering, as Tom Insel acknowledged when he said that billions of dollars in NIMH research had failed to “move the needle”. You also suggest that this research program may be a scientific dead end.

How do we bring that failure to light without contributing to the dismantling of the resources science would need to change course and do something better?

Apostolides: This is a huge issue. I did not confront it very much while writing the book because much of the book was written before the dismantling of federally funded research that began after the January 2025 inauguration. I was already well into the research and writing.

It’s funny. Right before the book came out, my publisher said, “I don’t know. Do your arguments still hold? Maybe they’re going to dismantle all scientific research anyway.” And I thought, Oh no. Do my arguments still hold?

But I still see requests for proposals coming out of NIH and NIMH that follow the same basic logic. They want rapid-acting antidepressants. Basically, they want psychedelics and transcranial stimulation. The emphasis is on acting rapidly, without necessarily establishing whether the effects endure.

The other area they are pursuing is computational psychiatry: How can we gather data about people’s movements and activities? Some people with Parkinson’s or epilepsy have neural implants. How can we harvest data from people who already have those implants and combine it with information about their movements, activities, and what they are reading online? How can we use that to create new models for mental health treatment through digital interventions?

It is not as if all the funding is simply disappearing. But I do not see the momentum shifting toward social determinants of health or community-based care.

At the same time, the veil has been lifted on some of this. We can no longer assume that whatever comes out of Harvard or MIT is cardinal truth. Of course, there are also many researchers at Harvard, MIT, and elsewhere who study the social determinants of health.

I really do think this is a moment for people who care about mental health and mental health research, but who do not begin from a brain-based neuroscientific perspective, to create a research agenda. We need to say: These are the questions we should be asking. These are the methods we should be using. This is how we might develop treatments that can be piloted and then carried into different communities in ways that actually address the problem.

Otherwise, what we get is the scaling up of mental health chatbots, which terrifies me.

Karter: I think that is such an important point. Even in the current funding environment—or lack of one—the logics you are describing are being intensified: the reliance on technology and the stripping away of attention to people’s subjective experience, including the ways experience is shaped by identity and social location.

Those are the things being canceled or cut from budgets, rather than interventions that can be marketed and made profitable, even when their efficacy has not been established beyond the short term. The private sector is happy to roll out technology-based interventions that people can pay for outside the health insurance system.

Things are being shaken up, but these are the approaches that continue to be prioritized. The questions we most need to address are the ones being left on the cutting-room floor.

Apostolides: That’s right.

Karter: I also want to give readers a sense of the writing itself. The book is a tour de force through the basic science and current research behind these neuroscience-based treatments, but it is also a literary work. Is there a passage you could read that would welcome listeners into the writing you have done?

Apostolides: Thank you for asking. I’m going to read from near the beginning of the book, where I describe how the project came to be. We discussed some of this earlier, so listeners will know the background, but this will give them a sense of how it feels on the page rather than in conversation.

I mention my interviews with Alik Widge and Ann Haynos. RDoC stands for Research Domain Criteria, the research framework developed by NIMH that helped push this brain-based approach.

When I interviewed Widge and Haynos, I’d never heard of computational psychiatry, or RDoC, or methods for identifying biomarkers. I’d contacted them because they’d co-written a paper together: I’ve mentioned that already. But I haven’t yet explained that their paper pertains to deep brain stimulation as a treatment for eating disorders—a treatment in which electrodes are implanted in the brain, modulating a person’s neural circuits through the release of electrical current. At the time of the interview, I was trying to write an article on that topic. But I lost control of the research. I kept reading, kept learning, kept trying to organize my thoughts, which I couldn’t. There were too many ideas, too many concepts, connected in ways I couldn’t yet clarify. After several weeks, the article expanded into a book on eating disorders, which then—through the influence of the transdiagnostic approach—transformed into the book you’re now reading. A book about science’s takeover of mental health research and treatment, a takeover driven by innovative technologies—incredible tools that are changing the way we understand our selves, our struggles, our wholeness and hurt as people moving through the world, and exploring our innermost mind.

As I listened to Widge many months ago—in January 2022, when my research for this book began—I didn’t know what he meant by “defining a new language.” He was speaking rather rapidly, rattling off what a clinician might think in the future while diagnosing a patient: “All right, we’re talking about people who score highly on Rating Scale A but not B, and only up to 50% on C…we’re talking about people who, if you give them this kind of decision, 80% of the time, they’ll make it this way—whereas everyone else would make it 80% of the time the other way…”

I now know some of the potential rating scales he was referring to. I’ve read dozens of studies where researchers ask people to perform various tasks—measuring their brain’s activity, or even just the choices they make and the speed with which they make them—and then claim they’ve identified a means to diagnose (and potentially treat) people’s mental health disorders. I’ve also read enough to know that these studies are built on questionable statistical methods, with problems in the instruments of measurement, and tasks that purport to examine fundamental aspects of our selves—how we think, what we feel, why we behave as we do—but which are actually kinda silly. I look at the tasks and start to laugh; I laugh as a form of release, like a safety valve on a machine. I laugh, and use the word ‘silly’ rather than ‘risible’—these studies are risible, repulsive—even though those words might convey my feelings more accurately.

I get upset because the stakes are real. The stakes are not only the drugs people take, or the electrical current sent through their brain, or the money they spend on spurious treatments. The stakes are more foundational, more essential. These studies, in aggregate, shape the way we see ourselves, defining who (and how) we are in the world.

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For more information about Go/No-Go, please visit the publisher’s website: https://bookhugpress.ca/shop/books/essays/go-no-go-a-journey-into-the-research-and-treatment-of-mental-health-disorders-by-marianne-apostolides/

For more information about Marianne’s writing in general, please visit her personal website: https://marianne-apostolides.com/

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