Losing my Mind

Cotter Smith’s performance is the secret weapon of this audiobook. He doesn’t dramatize DeBaggio’s unraveling; instead, his flat, measured delivery mirrors the numbness of early dementia, where panic lurks beneath the surface of everyday details. When DeBaggio describes misplacing a tool he’s held a thousand times, Smith’s voice doesn’t rise—it just gets quieter, as if the words themselves are slipping through his teeth. That restraint makes the rare moments of raw emotion hit harder, like when DeBaggio describes his wife’s face as she realizes what’s happening to him. Production-wise, the audio is clean but not sterile, the pacing deliberate without dragging, letting DeBaggio’s quiet fury and dark wit breathe. My only gripe? Smith’s reading of medical jargon occasionally stumbles, tripping over terms like ‘neurofibrillary tangles’ in a way that momentarily disrupts the flow. But that’s a minor flaw in an otherwise masterful performance. The real test of this audiobook is whether you can listen to it without feeling a little guilty for every forgotten name or misplaced key of your own. Because DeBaggio doesn’t ask for pity—he asks for witness, and Smith ensures you can’t look away.