I joked to my psychologist about the diagnosis she would put on my chart. "Schizophrenia? Bipolar disorder? Multiple personality?" I knew clearly that my diagnosis was nowhere near that; I had survived harrowing situations and faced life with enviable strength. She smiled. My fortitude amazed her, I knew it, and I knew that the referral to her was simply a mistake.
"Adjustment disorder," she finally said.
So then I killed her.
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