Aside from struggling with bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder (BPD), I sometimes struggle to see through all of the disorder to see myself as anything but another statistic, another local tragedy or another doomed martyr lined up to be sacrificed in the name of sanity.
In a lot of ways, I feel like a number, whether it’s a patient number in an inpatient behavioral health center or a tally mark of how I’d mark my pain on a scale from 1 to 10.
As one of five people living with mental illness in the United States, I’ve always felt doomed, as though I was living on borrowed time and eventually, that statistic would come back for me, taking the form of a lowly number waiting to fulfill a self-destructive and self-fulfilling.
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