When you’re given a diagnosis later in your life that somewhat explains for some of the terrible things you did,
mistakes you made, behaviours that make you want to bang your head against the wall.

You can’t write a letter to anyone you’ve ever cared about and say,
hey sorry, part of my behaviour back then stemmed from this apparent mental illness.
It doesn’t work that way. It’s not an excuse, it’s a mess.

But, for the rest of my life, I will search for moments full of you.