Why does my diagnosis define me? Why does it stray people away? Why does it classify me as a crazy person? Why does this one disorder affect my everyday life and all my interactions with people? Why, why, why? It isn’t my fault; I didn’t choose to end up this way.

I was 9 weeks premature and I wasn’t fully developed. I couldn’t breathe on my own, I didn’t cry, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t function on my own for the next 5 weeks as I laid in the NICU. I had tubes going through my nose, my mouth, and an IV in my arm. I was living off of machines. I didn’t choose that.
I was 7 years old and I was in first grade. This was when the bullying started. I was the chubby one and the other kids were cruel to me. During lunchtime I sat at the end of a table and ate my peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a side of laughs and finger pointing. During recess I’d sit by myself on the swing and hear the other kids laughing, having fun and not letting me play with them. I was teased daily, hearing them say “everyone stay away from Marissa she’s gonna eat us.” This became a routine for the kids and it hasn’t stopped to this day; I didn’t choose that.

I was 12 years old and I just started Junior High. The bullying got worse, the kids started saying more vulgar things to me and the rumors started to spread. I was in 6th grade and things got to the breaking point. I couldn’t stand the pain anymore and I feared going to school because the abuse was too much. I started to self-mutilate and I was just depressed. I had gotten so depressed, that I started to have reoccurring suicidal thoughts. I couldn’t handle anything anymore. So I attempted suicide; I took my mom’s pain killers that she had for her injury and I overdosed. I had taken the whole bottle, 60 pills of strong pain killers. My mom noticed her pills were missing and she went to ask me if I knew where they were; I was passed out on the bathroom floor. She immediately called 911 and told them I had attempted suicide. I was unconscious and I wouldn’t wake up. I got to the hospital and they couldn’t wake me up. They started to pump my stomach, trying to bring me back. Obviously they got me back, but I was still lost. I woke up, saw my parents crying hysterically and realized I was in the hospital. I was still alive; I didn’t choose that.

I was 16 and it was the summer before my sophomore year of High School. I had been talking to someone online as an escape. He didn’t know me, he couldn’t judge me, he wasn’t even aware of what I was dealing with at school. He had told me he was 18, so I didn’t think it was much of a difference. We decided to meet, and that was the worst mistake I could ever make. I had been taken advantage of against my will. I was raped. I was used as a toy. He took away every last bit of self-confidence and self-respect I had left, which wasn’t much. I didn’t choose this.

My diagnosis has been confirmed as Bipolar Disorder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Anxiety and Sever Depression. This is a diagnosis, not a label. I did not choose this, don’t blame me for it.