I was 13 when I cut myself for the first time.
15 when I first attempted suicide.
16 when I tried again. Then 17.
And I was 17 when I last cut myself.
I was 18 when I first went to the doctor.
18 when I was told that it was just hormones.
18 when I was misdiagnosed Bipolar.
19 when I first had my first episode.
20 when I went into my first psychosis.
And it was 21 when I went back to the doctor.
Scared to receive help because maybe it was just hormones.
Scared to talk about my life because what if they took my daughter away.
Scared to talk to anyone because what if they turned away…from me.
It was September that I started feeling more empty.
It was September that I sat on the train tracks and attempted suicide once more.
It was September that I watched my world fall apart.
It was September that I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder.
It was September that I was diagnosed with Major Depression.
It was now that I felt validated.
I’m not crazy, this is my normal, I can get better, it’s not just hormones.
So fuck you to the doctor who told me I was PMS’ing and that if “I truly felt something was wrong to call the number on the back of my insurance card.”
I wasn’t okay and I wasn’t alright. But I will be.
Thank you to Trish, my first therapist. Thank you to for hearing me out.
Thank you to Dr. Magsalin, who misdiagnosed me but at least treated me.
And thank you to Jody and Rachel who continue to help me through this journey.
It’s week three of Group Therapy and we learned how to properly express ourselves.
And this is me trying to properly express myself.
Through writing, through talking, through poetry, through art, through music…
And today I write to express my journey, a time line, a messy timeline of my life.
Of the pain I’be endured. Of the tears that I’ve shed.