Therapy 

When I write about what’s happening to me, I wonder what the perspective is of those who read it. I wonder if my family reads my stuff and still support the belief I’m crazy. They all like the diagnosis of bipolar and mental illness and there’s something wrong with me. Well, they’re right about one thing. Something is very wrong with me but it’s not what you would like it to be. You would like to think that this is all me, that no one had a hand in making me his way. My family would like to ignore me the way they always have. It’s more convenient and less painful for them than to admit that we shouldn’t treat each other this way. Their insecurities can be traced back at least 4 generations. 
There is a whole conversation about children and mental development. There are books and pamphlets and classes you can take. All about how to raise a healthy child with a strong understanding of themselves. 
They didn’t have that in the 70’s. Maybe family therapy was developed because of those years. Children should be seen and not heard is what they always said. Get the kids out of your face, make them go and play. The trouble is, some of us are highly sensitive and need a special kind of care. We need extra love and attention and reassurance we are wanted there. We feel scared and out of place and dependent on our parents to make us feel safe. Back in those days the divorce rate was high, my safe parent went away. She left me alone at four years old with a man who knows nothing but hate. 

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