So often, I am reminded that I am a statistic. Without a diagnosis, it’s easy to feel crazy and wonder what the fuck is wrong, all the while fearing that any clue you accidentally leave behind will lead to an involuntary hospitalization in the dreaded psych ward.

On the other hand, when the questionnaires are finally finished, and the therapist tells you that in fact you are NOT crazy, but there’s a name, it’s liberating. This is where my crusade to label and diagnose everything started.

Trying to find a reason, a name, and simply just an understanding of anything wrong with me seemed a mission worthy of my time, and the relief I felt is something I crave more than sugar. Each time I realized my behavior was “text book”, a statistical characteristic, my identity was both comforted and threatened. Again, relieved to have a name, but now chased with an empty sense of self.

We are more than our mental illness. We have to do more than just say this; we have to do things to remind ourselves we are more than statistics.

It’s difficult to do what I like because I feel guilty for not being productive and working on self improvement, but the ironic thing is that self improvement also comes from participating in activities completely unrelated to mental health.

We are more than statistics.