I have a mental illness·

———— moderate anxiety disorder.

When I was two or three years old.

I scribbled on the wall and drew three little people holding hands and laughing.

My mother looked at me and said to me in anger,

"Stop drawing these useless things! It's ugly! And you are so disobedient!"

Then she bought a bucket of paint and came to repaint the walls.

Since then there have been no more unpleasant patterns in the home.

When I was in first grade, my mother took me to a clothing shop to buy clothes.

For some reason,

I preferred comfortable sportswear to the dresses other girls liked.

But my mother thought that I was too unlike a girl, so my clothes went from being freely chosen to her buying them individually.

When I was in second grade, my mother bought me a sundress.

It was the first time I resisted so violently, crying and breaking several dishes and scratching my mother's face. I was forced to lose my mind, and I was beaten up or locked up, but I wouldn't wealdn't wear it.

In the end, it was my mother and father who, by virtue of their strength, pressed me together to change into the dress.

The moment I got dressed, I suddenly stopped crying and just kept my head down and my face expressionless.

"That dress is simply beautiful on my daughter, she must have stopped crying because she thought she was beautiful."

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Mother thought. After that, I wore all the dresses my mother bought for me and gave her a "smile" in return.

But as I grew up, those dresses were torn and torn by hobby knife cuts, one heavier than the other.

In third grade, I had excitedly expressed my desire to learn the drum set.

My mother looked at me with anticipation, so later that evening, she took me to the training facility to prepare for registration.

As she passed one instrument classroom after another, the small sound of a piano stopped my mother in her tracks.

Looking through the glass panel of the piano classroom, there was a teenage girl with a ponytail and a pretty face sitting at the piano, playing carefully, the evening sun shining on her body, giving her a light golden glow, making her look like a fairy.

Then my mother calculated the cost of the piano and dragged me to take piano lessons - "I want my daughter to have the best lessons".

I had several fights with my mother over this. But she said, "I'm doing it for your own good.""The piano is more expensive than the drum set, don't you know?" "Girls shouldn't learn to play the drums".

My mother didn't think she was doing anything wrong, and the fact that she was so strict about me playing the piano day after day for years afterwards made me forget what the drum kit was.

My mother also forgot that my initial request to go to tuition classes was to learn drums, not piano.

In sixth grade, because I was about to start junior high school, my mother scheduled classes as if they were during the school year, despite the fact that it was summer vacation. Seven days without a break, from 6am to 9am every day.

In my second year, I always told my mother that I had panic attacks and headaches, and I always had trouble sleeping at night.

However, my mother only suspected that I was trying to avoid cram school, so she didn't take what I said seriously.

It wasn't until early one morning, just after I had regained consciousness, that I saw myself holding a pair of scissors to my mother's throat.

After which she realised the seriousness of the problem and took me to the hospital for a series of tests.

EEG, MRI ...... checked round and spent a fortune, the and night blindness was just a vitamin A deficiency.

Finally the doctor frowned at the test reports for half a day and sent me off for one last test. And therein lay the problem - "moderate anxiety."

The doctor gave me a two-week leave of absence, but my mother only found it ridiculous when she heard about it.

A second year junior high school student simply needed to study, what was there to be anxious about, and then told me to hurry up and go to school.

In my third year of junior high school, my mother and I had our last argument.

That day, I was holding a brochure of the Academy of Fine Arts and excitedly introducing my mother to that Academy, pleading to make it my first choice.

Yet the mother looked at it and said cynically, "What painter becomes famous before he dies? Don't you know that all those who study art are bad kids?"

Without waiting for me to resist, she went to the computer and quickly volunteered for me as she herself wanted - confirming the submission.

Then she locked the bedroom door and left me in there by myself to reflect, not thinking about my moderate anxiety either.

People are actually very conflicted， they do not believe that disabled people can be healthy, but believe that mental illness can heal itself.

That day, I killed myself mentally and gave up emotionally, just study hard anyway, right, and no one would come to understand me.

At dinner my mother let me out and I confessed my "crime" to her and promised not to argue with her next time.

I pulled out the chair by the dining room and sat next to my brother, as I always do.

I ate my meal with a smile on my face, but something seemed to have changed, and something didn't.

University. I finally took it! But along with getting into college came a suicide note from my suicide.

"What you wanted me to do, I have now done, leave me alone."