How could I be in pain? How dare I ask for help? No one saw me as a human being; they took one look and concluded that I had everything an American girl could want. I wasn’t human: I wasn’t allowed to be human. I suffered alone. I had to fight for a diagnosis; alone. Shrinks and doctor’s weren’t much help. They said things like, “I have patients who are really sick.”
I worked and studied to find answers for myself. And finally, after many years and much damage had already been done, a diagnosis, but no cure for the mean-spirited attacks on the “mentally ill” or “developmentally disabled” by social normals, especially those in the Caring Industry. The first shock of being diagnosed is that you fall off the social pyramid – you belong to an outcast class no matter where you formerly existed. People act as if you’re dangerous and talk down to you as if you’re an imbecile. Your presence becomes annoying, as if you’re just another disposable street person. And then you become invisible. So it’s grit your teeth, use your intelligence, find how to live, and forget about empathy, compassion or even shallow sympathy from the pillars of society. Normal people aren’t nearly as nice as they think they are.
If someone tells you they need help, believe them.