As the only member of my immediate family with diagnosed mental health conditions, I have spent over half of my life feeling like a bit of a black sheep.
I first started seeing a psychiatrist and therapist in the eighth grade, and my parents didn’t even seem to bat an eye when I received my borderline personality disorder diagnosis.
After all, the “label” merely matched what they already saw me as– a mentally unstable hot mess. When I spend any amount of time with my family, they remind me of all the ways I am “not normal” or “not like the rest of the family.” Any progress I make in therapy is discounted with the laundry list of ways I’m “still sick” or “too unstable” because obviously if I could “get better,” I would have already.
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