Maybe I have PTSD and am bipolar? It could happen - and frankly, who could really tell, it's all functionally about the same.

The reason I say that is ... I have been going through the entire bipolar diagnosis saga with the new T, and it plays on my mind just as it did back then. The difference then, I was coming from a position of "they say I am, but X, Y, and Z don't fit bipolar". Now I am at another place, PTSD Land, and I look back and think well, X, Y, and Z might fit bipolar OR PTSD, or both.

And mostly, because I need to know what I am. Am I a man, am I a boy? Am I sane, am I insane? Am I a devil or an angel or neither? Good or bad?

I had this really interesting, multi-part conversation with my mom. I told her that I had to know what she, and the rest of the family, thought about me, and whether being "mentally ill" changes that in their eyes, if it makes me a bad person, if it makes them want me out. Her response was no, of course not, but that is only her response. If the rest knew ???????? I wanna know if the diagnosis matters to them, whether or not they view one thing as better or worse than another?

Two years ago today, I went back to work after my 3 weeks at the hospital. I feel not much more settled, or comfortable, than I did two years ago.

It still hurts like Hell that I sought out relief for my issues, and was treated like a criminal for it. Maybe that is melodramatic, but that is exactly how it feels. And worse, my father got away with it for years. Metaphorically, he committed serious felonies, and got off essentially scott free. I commit a civil infraction traffic offense, and I am sentenced to hard labor, years of parole, and am stripped of rights and dignity (metaphorically speaking, not literally, it just feels like that).

It feels like "punish the victim", like one of the hardline Muslim countries where a woman is raped, then they stone her to death because she was obviously a harlot who was aksing for it. I never asked for what I got, and I certainly did NOT deserve it.

Let the stones fly, though, how much more can they take away from me? Not much.

Who am I? What am I? I can't stand the not knowing any more.