Mental illness has always been something I've known. I began to struggle at nine with an intense depression and I wouldn't get out of bed because of. It escalated through anxieties and tendencies, but I eventually got my shit together again. In 7th grade I went on a diet because I was 'fat'. I restricted eating, starting feeling a permanent sadness and sliced open my arms. By 8th grade I knew that this was not a normal sadness. But I didn't understand because sometimes I felt so good about life as well. And why would a young, capable, economically stable girl with no traumas experience this? I told my mother that I needed help. She believed (and continues to believe that I am only anxious and if I ate some more protein I'd be better). Two years later I was diagnosed bipolar. My parents flipped and refused to believe any of it they insisted and I was fine and I still get no support from them, only verbal abuse. I have to pay for my own medications and trips to therapy because my family refuses to admit that we are not the picture perfect white suburban family. I realized that I don't need my family's approval to not be okay. Everyday is still a struggle, but I'm learning how to not feel so crazy.