I used to think that the DSM IV provided a map to little old me, located in Dysfunctiontown, USA. From the time I was thirteen, I have traveled with a host of disorders. I started with Depression, took a left at Bulimia, blew right throw the light at Cutting and braked just before Suicide. I won't even get into the scenic detours of abuse, PTSD and dissociation disorder (not otherwise specified). I packed light, with a backpack full of pills, each of which offered a more horrific side effect than the last.
Along the way, I stayed with some kind people, people who told me I was more than a diagnosis, had potential beyond despair. I wanted to believe them, but deep down I knew I was worthless and broken. I counted off the years since my suicide attempt as time I did not deserve (or want) to have.
I am not sure at what point my trip changed, when I was able to drop my bag and rest awhile. But what matters is that now I can look back on my travels, as distant memories that led me home.
I know you won't believe me, but sometime you will get to rest too. Home is not in the afterlife or oblivion. It's right there, in your future.