It was in the late 1980s, and my mother was diagnosed with a rare neurodegenerative disorder.
She was the youngest of eight children.
She spent years of her life in a wheelchair.
It was during one of these weeks that she told me her diagnosis.
She had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, but it was in a very different part of her brain that Alzheimer’s disease was manifesting.
She didn’t have the symptoms of Alzheimer’s itself, but the signs of its symptoms were.
My mother had not been diagnosed until after she had lived in a nursing home, which is a very expensive and restrictive environment.
At the time, we were told she had dementia.
She did not.
She never had the opportunity to go to college, so she never got a job.
She lived in an apartment with her children, who are now aged four and seven.
As her condition worsened, so did her family.
And now she was in severe financial crisis.
She struggled to get by, and she had no savings.
And so she began to feel the symptoms and the signs.
She knew something was terribly wrong with her, and as a result, she sought medical help.
I don’t know if it was the first time my mother had felt the symptoms that I was experiencing.
It felt like something that was happening to her in real time.
And in that moment, I decided that I needed to know the truth.
I had been taught that psychiatry was about diagnoses and treatments, and that it was important for me to be able to talk to people about what was going on in my life.
The only problem was, I wasn’t a psychiatrist.
I was a psychoanalyst.
And for many years, the way that psychiatrists talked about my illness was to talk about it as if it were a normal problem, and I was just a case of some sort of personality disorder.
My mental health was the responsibility of a psychotherapist.
It didn’t help that many of my patients were in residential care.
When my mother went to a psychiatric clinic, the therapist had no idea what she was doing.
The fact that she didn’t know what she did didn’t really help, either.
The therapy that she gave was focused on how to fix my problems, not on my mental health.
It made me feel like I was living a lie.
The therapist then gave me a diagnosis of narcissistic personality disorder, a diagnosis that is quite vague and often misunderstood.
In my mind, it didn’t mean I had to take medication, because I wasn