so many thoughts racing through my head…remembering how they stripped me of my belt, my shoe laces…and my dignity. bipolar I is not fun and somehow I always feel like I have offended and/or hurt every one I have ever encountered…i wish I could go one by one and say “I’m sorry…” if you happen to read this and are one of those people, please take this as my apology.
Start at the beginning.
The summer before sophomore year of high school, when I was a few months shy of 16, I broke up with my first boyfriend. I was devastated; no one ever taught me how to deal with heartbreak and the emotions attached. I had a really hard time and lashed out in a million ways. I hit on my ex-boyfriend’s best friends. I tried drugs and drinking heavily. I skipped curfew and stayed out all night driving my parents insane and worrying them half to death. I chain smoked cigarettes out of my bedroom window and cut classes. I took a secret trip to the village in New York to get a tattoo without parental consent. I shoplifted clothes and jewelry. I was spiraling out of control. On my oh so sweet sixteenth birthday I tried to kill myself. Razor to the wrist. Two deep long cuts…
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