I remember the day.
The words, Borderline Personality Disorder, could not sift through my head. It did not match the perfect child I had. Not the one that excelled in class, not the one that sang like Amy Winehouse, or the one that giggled like a twittering robin when she saw the icing on my nose. There must be a mistake.
I lumbered around the house for three days in a cloud of peas soup. Questions hammering in my head.
My lovely child cannot be cast aside as one with “special needs.” I refused to have a judgemental psychiatrist label my angel. And her teachers! …