~Labeled

So... in January of 1987, after the insurance ran out, I was miraculously well enough to leave the locked environment. I was discharged and sent to live with Art, although I had to keep attending the school attached to the crazy house.

They sent me "home" with my own fancy shmantzy set of labels. It all made sense now. I was just crazy. No problems. I wasn't really hurting, I just suffered from Major Depression Recurrent. I wasn't screaming to everyone who saw me, showing them just how much pain I could take, trying to scare off those who would harm me, I just had Borderline Personality Disorder. And really.. I wasn't a boy. I was just a girl with Gender Dysphoria.

Everything's all ok. Happy Happy. Joy Joy.

Labels. I'm obsessed with them. Why? Because of what they have the power to do. Because of those damn labels, and the fuckers who put them on me, I spent half my life thinking that I was a sick person... knowing that I was a sick person.

They won. They got me into the mold, and created what they wanted. They put layers and layers of CRAP over my core... suffocated it with labels... suffocated ME with labels. They gave birth to a depressed, psychotic, lesbian.

I learned to love the dirt I ate, and happily sucked the dicks of my makers. Yes, so to speak. Dykes don't do dick. I made sure to be exactly what they wanted me to be... or at least, to present myself that way. I knew what happened when you didn't. When you didn't, you'd starve on the street. When you didn't, you'd lose your freedom. When you didn't, they'd give you Thorazine.

I'm tired of being sick.