Long before I admitted it to myself or received an official diagnosis, I knew something wasn't right. I had inexplicable bursts of anger where the slightest inconvenience would make me lose my temper, resulting in yelling, slammed doors and broken dishes.
Sometimes I started crying without knowing why, having to make up a reason to explain the tears to concerned friends or family.
Other times I was lying motionless on the couch, too numb and disinterested to do anything but stare blankly into space. Being alive felt like a drag, a burden I hadn't asked for, and I cursed the day I was born and objected to the tedious process of living.