Do you deserve to get better? Do you? I didn’t think I deserved to get better. By the time I was diagnosed, I had crossed every imaginable line back to forgiveness, back to wholeness, back to redemption. I woke up to a drugged-up, lithium reality, and I couldn’t look in the mirror any more. I dragged my body around with me, humiliated to still be breathing. My parents tried to talk to me about nutrition, vitamins, going to see a new psychiatrist. I chain smoked and listened to them; all I could hear was the “wah, wah, wah,” of their voices. I felt like a kid in a Charlie Brown episode.

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