[dropcap]M[/dropcap]y story with mental health officially begins in my senior year of high school, when I was diagnosed with anxiety. My doctor discovered that my intestines were literally empty — I had stopped eating — and were digesting themselves because there wasn’t any food to digest instead. Given a prescription for therapy and antacids to combat the physical symptoms, I was sent on my way. It took me six months to actually go to therapy. It was August, and I was leaving for my freshman year of university in three weeks. According to my therapist, I should’ve been having two…
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