It was nearly 20 years ago but I still remember how angry I was. A psychiatrist at the hospital where I was recovering from a self-injury, told me that there was no hope for me. "Your life will consist of a series of crises and the best you can hope for is to learn to manage them one at a time."
Who the hell was he to pronounce me incurable and condemn me to living through endless firestorms until I found myself in one that I couldn't escape.
I was devastated. I left the hospital in despair.
Much, much later, I wondered if there was a sliver of a choice somewhere in this haystack? Were there actually, management methods that I wasn't aware of? Did I have to die of this?
By then I had a therapist who didn't think I was doomed and who was helping me to do more than just survive.
I have gradually found ways to contain, shorten and recover from the crazy times.
I don't know why the all-knowing shrink delivered his prognosis with all the delicacy of a sledge hammer. I am still angry about that.
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