If you have not read Part One, you may want to start there.
The only thing I remember about my first visit to the psychiatrist is the diagnosis I walked away with.
It’s strange really. I didn’t know that I had lost the memory of this experience until I went to write about it, and I felt very disconcerted upon realization. I have no memory of how I felt about the doctor or what I said to him. I don’t remember my reaction to the diagnosis, maybe I didn’t react at all. Getting a mental health diagnosis can be life altering, and it certainly has been for me. I am still confused and a bit angry when I search my brain to remember and come up completely and totally BLANK.
This diagnosis that has stolen so much from me throughout my life; it has brought me down shaking to my knees begging for salvation. It has seen me curled up in a hospital bed hysterically insisting I don’t belong there, only to have the nurse tell me that I obviously do. It has convinced me that death would be less painful than life and that my loved ones would also be better off without me. It has watched friend after friend turn their back on me because this is all “too much” for them to handle… And yet I don’t remember the day I learned the name of my curse? I wonder if my younger self had any inkling of the implications, of the life or death battle that lay ahead once that diagnosis had been given?
Was I angry? Hopeful that the doctor could help me? Fearful? Or was it just a word that I didn’t really understand at that age? Did I keep it a secret from my friends, or did I fill them in? Do the answers to any of these questions matter even a little bit? Probably not. Remembering the moment I discovered my diagnosis wouldn’t change it, nor would it change the path my life took from there, and how I’ve ended up right here writing this.
I’d still like to remember.
You just read Part 2 (of 4)
To Be Continued…