Written by Laura Lea Cupp

I’ve been slapped with a lot of labels over the years. Asperger’s. Borderline. Major Depressive. Anxiety disorder. I could keep going. Like the DSM was playing bingo with my brain. Some labels stuck for a while, some felt like trying on someone else’s shoes—not meant for the bone spurs on my heels.

I’m not a mental health professional- but I’ve had run-ins with my fair share. And I’ve often wondered what the hell’s wrong with me. This can’t be normal. If the whole human population was like this, we’d have gone extinct somewhere between fire and flip phones.

I’ve sat in offices where the wallpaper had more compassion than the therapist. I’ve tried to explain the kind of pain you can’t explain—just a slow leak that floods everything. But those diagnoses never felt like they told the truth.

Many years ago, I stopped going.

But ya know what? I’m facing life head on. No pharmaceuticals. No therapy. No numbing. I laid down the bottle nearly 6 years ago—former alcoholic, current truth-teller. I traded the buzz for clarity, the blackout for prayer. I carry a busted pocketknife from my dad and a pajama pocket stitched from my mom’s pajamas. I walk hand-in-hand with Berry. I carry grief like a compass and joy like contraband. I flinch less than I used to. I can enjoy fireworks now. That’s progress. That’s holler grit.

I’ve got more emotional mileage than an old Buick. Will I ever get an accurate diagnosis? I don’t know. Maybe the right name doesn’t matter as much as the right story. And mine’s now being stitched together with sobriety and stubborn hope.

I’m not asking for validation. I’m just claiming my truth-whatever that is. I’ve been misdiagnosed, misunderstood, and underestimated—but I’ve survived. And survival is its own kind of expertise.

If you’re out here too—winging it, praying through it, carrying sacred objects and scars—you’re not broken. You’re just living without a manual. Maybe we’re the kind of folks who write our own manuals.

Text © Laura Lea Cupp