Once upon a time

I’m not sure if this means anything, really. I don’t know if my suicide story is over. If I really ever came out the other side of that tunnel, as it were. I guess I should tell you my story in some sort of order, or at least tell you something, right?
I wasn’t a happy child. My parents knew I was depressed as early as first grade. Childhood depression wasn’t really a popular diagnosis then, and we didn’t have the money for a a psychiatrist anyway, so they opted not to address the issue. I knew I was different, but I didn’t know it was because other kids were happier. I just assumed they were louder. It wasn’t until middle school that I realized I was the only sixth grader in my school who wanted to die more than they wanted a date to the dance. I didn’t act on my desire for another foru years.
In tenth grade I cemented my status as a good student by trying to kill myself, failing, and surviving with a damaged liver and sympathetic teachers. Of course, that’s not the whole story, but it never really is, is it?
I don’t know why the doctors never agreed after that, but my diagnosis has been shifted, if not downright changed, quite often since then. Depression, bipolar, psychosis, and PTSD have all made appearances on my insurance bills and prescription bottles. I’m off all my meds now and I don’t know…
I think I might be okay. That maybe I can make it through whatever depression I go through, and whatever else my brain throws at me, and be okay. That maybe, even if I’m not stronger, I can at least be strong. Maybe. Maybe I found my happily ever after.