A little of my story.
In 1999, my best friend died unexpectedly. She was only thirty-one. When she didn't turn up at Central Station on time, I figured she'd been delayed by adventure. It turned out she'd been killed in a train accident along with her son. I was hoping we could talk about moving back in together but never got the chance. I was 23.
By this time I'd already had a miscarriage, been couch-hopping-homeless and never felt stable. None of which seemed to affect me the way trauma is supposed to but this was different. After Nat's death, I disconnected, floated, yielded to melancholy.
At 27, I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder and given Zoloft. Neither the psychiatrist nor the drugs were interested in the complexities of what was going on for me. They focused on self-harm and not much else. As if that was the pinnacle of healing.
I needed a treatment that didn't look at me sideways. One that took all of me into account and was able to replicate the way I am with people. But no one else works like that so, out of necessity, I established my own therapy.