May. 23rd, 2011

perzephone: (bad ducky)
This workbook is starting to irritate me, and I'm only on page 9. It seems to be pushing me to basically shout from the rooftops that I have a mental illness.

For some reason, I'd rather the world believe that I am just a dull joyless bitch instead of clinically depressed.

edited for additional angstI must hide it well. When I walked in front of that car lo those long years ago, no one bothered to ask me if I did it on purpose. Not my cousin or my sisters or my dad or my friends, not the judge at the insurance hearing... the judge asked me if I was 'playing chicken', but didn't ask if I was trying to commit suicide. Not even my anger management counselor. Not one single person.

Weird.

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