Tuesday, May 17, 2016


When I was almost seventeen and finally sought help, and my psychiatrist still talked to her at every appointment, my mother was told I was probably bipolar but diagnosed me with major depression.

At eighteen I was diagnosed with two anxiety disorders.

When I was twelve my mother took me to the doctor for a test and I got all the answers right because I knew I didn't want to be broken.

When I was five I would scream at the wrinkles in the sheets on my bed and stay awake all night to keep away the nightmares.

When I was six my teacher was convinced that I was mute because the thought of talking to an stranger petrified me.

When I was thirteen I started leaving the house at night and walking because my nightmares were too intense.

When I was fourteen my doctor told my mother it was just teenage angst.

At nineteen my fear of needles was still so intense that I cried for an hour before every blood drawing required for the.medication that was supposed to fix me.

At fifteen, a week before my birthday, the boy who I had willingly given my virginity to left me because my mental state was too much for him.

At sixteen I was raped by a close friend at a time when I had been isolating myself and didn't report it or tell my parents or friends.

At twenty I suffer from mostly uncontrolled major depression and anxiety and stress. Three people know about my rape, ten know about my mental illness. If I told either of these things to a lot of people they wouldn't believe me and would call me over dramatic. They think I am calm. They think I am happy. They think I am okay.