As I look back at my childhood twenty years later, I cannot think that it was anything remarkable. Some of you may think so, but to me it was a mere rite of passage and a required period of any human life. There were characters in that chapter of life that many would find repugnant, myself one of them. But, to me, it was nothing. If anything, it merely built character.
This is the first in a series of posts that gives my backstory of the events that led to diagnosis. I anticipate that it will take 5-7 posts, so bear with me.
My mother’s side of the family is a cesspool of genetic mental illness. Depression, bipolar, and schizophrenia are tenants of that hellish residence. I was not spared.
I spent life up until my mid-twenties as a broken mass of depression. There was no cause and it seemed like no treatment helped. There was simply a chemical imbalance, passed by my mother’s genes, that had taken too deep of root. I was functional, but never able to reach full potential. Like most others in her ancestry, I was crippled by that which I had no control over. By the time my marriage to my husband began to fall apart, I was completely out of step with life.