This is the most personal post I’ve written so far. Trigger Warning: Mention of self harm
I really wish there was a thermometer to check for a mental illness, because only that could put an end to my perennial question of whether my illness is real or whether I am a master manipulator to have conned multiple mental health professionals. I wonder if I am over reading into the signs, mistaking plain sadness for depression and general worry for anxiety.
I try to cut myself, kill myself, but in vain, hoping at least that will prove to no one else — but to me, that this pain and this suffering is real. Or maybe it’s not. I don’t know. I ask myself if my symptoms are a consequence of reading too much on the internet or whether they are actually real. Maybe I have Manchausen Syndrome! (Yeah, watch Sharp Objects to know what that is)
As I write this terribly unsettling post, I find my heart racing. Wondering if my worst fears come true. Is it just me? or do you feel this too? Maybe I am just a fucking liar.
But then I remind myself of wanting to die at 11, pretty sure I wasn’t faking it then, and pretty sure I didn’t even know what bipolar disorder was. I remind myself of thinking that my mother would poison me when I was 5, surely a 5-year-old wasn’t cooking that shit up. I have to remind myself again and again, I couldn’t have possibly conned four therapists and three psychiatrists. Right?
Mental Health with Milana 