Content Notice: This story contains references to Suicide and Self-harm.
I’m writing this story in a hospital near where I live in Bordeaux, France. This is my second hospitalization; after several depressions and manic episodes, I was recently diagnosed with bipolar disorder.
People might wonder, “How is she better if she’s still in the hospital?”— but for the first time in my life, I have hope. The diagnosis is what gave me hope; it means we can find the right medication and the right kind of therapy with a psychologist.
I always felt different, and deep inside I always knew something was going on. I’d say my life is quite peaceful today, even though I am not stable yet and still think about self-harm and suicide from time to time— I am surrounded by nice people, people I love and who love me back. It wasn’t always like that.
I was bullied as a young teenager. Someone noticed my weakness and, out of pure cruelty, decided to stab me there. This cruel girl turned my best friend against me and used her to deliver the messages. The two of them would come every day to call me Axelle the ugly. They would tell me that I was worthless and would never find anybody to love me. These were only some of the awful things they said all the time.