I consider the moment I was mis-diagnosed as bipolar and condemned to a psych program to be the moment I died. August 22, 2012 at 3:10 pm in a quack psychiatrist's office in Rochester Hills, Michigan. It was my death sentence, I have been on death row ever since, just awaiting my execution. Dead man walking.

So, my life was often a pure living Hell before then. I was frequently in emotional torment.

Now, after, is much worse, to an infinite degree. Before, I felt like an equal member of society, now I feel like a pariah. I wish I were dead, I want to be dead, and the temptation to purchase the means is very, very strong.

I truly grieve for who I was - I may have been a mess, but I had my sense of pride.

I have nothing now and no reason to live.