This one came in hot so forgive me if it goes gibberish but I gotta put these somewhere safe and leaving paper notebooks around can be dangerous for people like me.
When I was in high school, I was diagnosed with "homicidal mania" by some lunatic who thought Prozac and a kick in the pants would solve the problem that is Robin.
You'll never guess who brought THAT diagnosis to my school with a quickness. Better than admitting that you fucked up by boiling my brains in gifted classes instead of giving me speech therapy.
Bet it's the same person who forgot it was all a lie to cover up the shame of that decision and just believes that diagnosis herself more so she has to send the fucking goons for me.
I've been trying to explain how shame kills, but I guess some people prefer the buzzing of bees in their head, even though it's only a couple of goons with an iPod.
Look. At. Me.
A brief moment of kitchen tongs with mail coming in hot, then coherent sentences kept in a safe place.
I also see the return of my health without any vicious antipsychotics that turn me into a walking COMPLIANT meat suit. No restraints. No forced medical and/or legal procedures.
For some reason, doing things my way doesn't make me sad at all. Hm.