When I was fourteen my parents took me to see a counselor they'd found their church. I only saw him for a couple of months before my depression lifted on its own and never went back for various reasons. From that point on until I moved out for good, my mother held that period of time over my head as a disciplinary tool by threatening to call the therapist and send me back whenever I raised my voice or said something she didn't like. The very last time she tried, she made the mistake of doing it while I was manic. It ended in her crying, my screaming, and a lot of broken dishes. She never did it again.

Or "We always knew you were crazy." Well gee thanks guys, that makes me feel sooo much better.