I was 12 when I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. I started taking pills the same year, and when you have to tell someone the reason you’ve been absent for 167 classes (I remember this number even today) they usually assume you’re a bad kid.
I liked to believe I was a good kid, but when you say you’ve actually been to therapy all of those times, kids assume that you need pity and not that you just want help.
I also had an emotionally abusive mother and both of my parents were over protective. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without parental supervision, I couldn’t close my door, I couldn’t have sleepovers very much and I pretty much couldn’t be alone.
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