Here’s the thing: I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t mentally ill.

The first time I was seen by a professional I was a pre-teen. Just eleven or twelve.

She saw it then — the dissociation, the impulsive and destructive behaviors — and delivered the news that I was behaving like a victim of sexual molestation.

Sadly, the time frame of the behaviors surfacing was in alignment with my mother remarrying, forcing her to consider the possibility that my new stepfather was involved.

That wasn’t the case at all.

The timing was due to the upheaval in my life — the move, not the marriage.

It’s so clear looking back.