It’s safe to say that the hardest part of my journey was admitting a need for help. I was raised as an ideal perfectionist, always striving for more. Constantly, I criticized myself concerned with how others viewed me. Yet, I was strong and independent and therefore, I refused to admit to imperfections. For 19 years, I portrayed a tough and emotionless exterior. To me, vulnerability was a sign of weakness and it was a feeling to avoid at all costs.
It was difficult for me to acknowledge that I had an mental illness, and so for many years I simply viewed it as a part of who I was. I viewed myself as a control freak and emotionless. I remember thinking to myself:
“Am I going to feel like this for the rest of my life?”
Two years ago, the answer would have been yes. However, I continued to push…
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