It seemed my mental health diagnosis was revised whenever a new illness was defined in the DSM. From when I was thirteen years old until this day at age sixty, I’ve become familiar with those diagnoses slapped on my back; major depression, generalized anxiety disorder, personality disorder – antisocial. SAD, PTSD, borderline personality, schizoid affective disorder, disassociation disorder, and at present Bi-Polar Type II. If I reject each diagnosis found in random files that bear my name would it matter, really?

Nonetheless, I don’t believe I have a mental illness per se. I behave according to the norms perceived to exist in the world I was born. Unfortunately, my impulsive behavior tends to run amuck in an unforgiving system of laws and expectations. Finding in the aftermath one more mountain of unforgiving regret.

That I cry most often, that I do alone very well, that I curse the iniquity found across all cultures, that I hold grudges well past their expiration date are the parts of me I    understand. And, that’s far more than most would admit.

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