Why Can't My Life be Normal?

Hope Feels Hopeless

Now that's an ironic joke if I ever heard one.

I'm honestly a little glad that my mental health issues weren't discovered until after the move. Imagine what the bullies could've done with the knowledge of my depression and anxiety?

I probably wouldn't've survived seventh grade.
I've been at battle with my own mind for quite sometime. The first panic attack I can remember was in 6th grade . My dad had forgotten that I had an dentist appointment that day. my school had let out at 3:30 and my dad didn't remember me until six.
I don't remember much other than not being able to breathe and crying. Eventually, as the office was closing for the day, Dad called and said he was on his way.
My diagnosis didn't happen until sophomore year. It was probably my grades that clued my parents as sad as this is.
They didn't notice at first because I didn't really tell them anything. I don't like bothering people with my thoughts. Little me didn't like it even more.
Sixth grade was the year I first got bullied. I didn't want to bother my parents so I just threw myself into my school work and read books in my free time.
Sophomore year was different. I had been put into advance classes and fell behind when I refused to ask help.
Eventually, they placed me into different classes to try to salvage my grades with marginal success.
That year I was also placed with a therapist.
The first one I didn't like.
I don't really know what made me uncomfortable about him.
He talked about how he had a perfect record of helping patients the first time we met.
That's something I rememberer.
He wanted direct eye contact for the entire session.
Would complain about me hiding behind my hair after I would try to make eye contact and getting uncomfortable.
He always asked me to speak louder.
I didn't like his tone of voice as well. He always spoke to me like I was a injured animal. Using that tone that every adult uses when telling a young kid bad news.
I never really told him anything, and eventually I stopped going.
Then they took me to a clinic farther away. My meds weren't really working and my parents wanted me better.
They almost sent me to a institution, my parents didn't tell me this fact until senior year.
The only reason they didn't was the fact they had one more trick they wanted to try before locking me up.
Care and comforts was a little therapist thing that was in the small strip mall next to my school. They had a thing where they would send one of their case workers to the school to have sessions with people during their breaks.
My days were Thursday with a lady named Debbie.