top of page

I'm not a jar, don't label me

When I was a kid I felt so free to be whoever I wanted.

I didn't feel the need to fit into any niche or be what others expected. I just was.

As I got older and so desperately wanted to fit in this changed.

I wanted to belong, whatever that meant, so I found labels for myself.

It started with my sexuality. I was straight, obviously. But no. Not that. I was bisexual. Because that was more accepted right. I could talk boys with the girls and girls with the boys. Perfect. But no that wasn't right either. So I'm gay right? That's my label. I'm gay.

Then it went to my mental health. It's an eating disorder right? But what eating disorder. Osfed. But that's not a real eating disorder. It's anxiety. But what kind of anxiety. Gotta be more specific. It's depression. No it's major depressive disorder. As I got older I found peace in the labels. BPD. Oh that's why I'm like this.

Then it was gender. Am I a woman? Am I nonbinary? Does it matter? Do I care?

My psychiatrist wrote a letter to my gp recently and in it they said I no longer fit the criteria for BPD. I read this and my initial reaction was no. I need the bpd label. It explains so much. But I also felt calm. Like, whatever. I've had it suggested that I may have austism. Or adhd. Or some combo thereof. And I always thought I'd get an assessment when I have the money.

But weirdly enough, since having kids I don't really care for labels anymore.

I am looking for me on the other side of 2 decades of mental illness. I don't know what that looks like.

But I think I'm back at that point of childlike ambivalence. Qu sera sera. Whatever will be will be.

12 views0 comments


bottom of page