I once had an awkward conversation with my mum on the way to school. My stomach churned and my hands fidgeted. On the previous Friday, at school, I had been issued an ultimatum; tell your parents or I will. This ultimatum had been issued by my school counselor; if by Monday I had not told my parents of my suicidal idealizations she would.
I was 12.
I was diagnosed with depression and sent to a psychologist.
This was just the very first step on what would become a very twisted, at times very dark, painfully lonely, frustratingly perpetual and ongoing journey. A journey abounding with diagnosis, doctors and medications; multiple countries, uncountable heartbreak, scars, numerous dalliances with substance, self harm and suicidal thoughts.
This journey has bought me here, to my computer, nervously facing down the barrel of another year.
I am 32, I love music, reading, movies and running. Lots of running. I have a compassionate, intelligent and ridiculously supportive husband (also handsome). An equal parts beautiful/insane three-year old daughter and two relatively useless dogs. We live on the Central Coast of New South Wales, or God’s Country as we like to call it around here.
And I have Bipolar 2 and Borderline Personality Disorder.
I would like to share my journey with you, open the lines of communication and challenge the stigma around mental illness.
In the interest of honesty I will let you in on a secret. The conversation that I mentioned earlier, with my mother, was not the most awkward conversation that I have had. I once asked her the meaning of the word fellatio.
I was 15.