I think a lot of my current struggles with mental health boil down to a disbelief with events that actually happened.
My life story seems surreal. It sounds bonkers. But it happened.
I graduated from Wharton. I was a D1 athlete. I endured a lot of horrible things that I was in denial about for many years.
I lost my shit in college.
But I think many would’ve cracked under the pressure I was under.
And that breaking point defined the rest of my life.
I was put on very very strong medications.
Gaslit by medical professionals.
No one asked targeted questions.
Because “were you abused or raped” are vague. And I was in denial.
“Are you taking drugs” well I certainly didn’t consider benadryl a “drug” – but I wasn’t sleeping so I took 10 at a time.
“Do you have/had an eating disorder”
Well my roommates had an intervention for me for one. I denied it, told them I felt fine.
I took 7 years of minocycline, followed by accutane, which has reports of causing mental illness.
I remember sitting in my mother’s kitchen at 13 as she stood by the sink and I told her I wanted to end my life.
And she paused, then said, “All teenagers feel that way. You’ll get over it”.
No one asked about those things.
And to some degree it was easier to believe that something was inherently wrong with me.
That I was defective.
Than to accept what I’d been through.
But I don’t think now that I’m the crazy one.
I think I played scapegoat beautifully.
And I’m still searching for a path forward.
So, here’s to new beginnings and closing many chapters of suffering.
Laughs and Lobotomies 