I have a perfect life. I have a family that loves me. I grew up in a big house in one of the worlds richest countries. I was popular growing up, and had many friends. And then I hit puberty and I started getting sick. And kept getting sicker and sicker. I got it under control with therapy and went on getting a great job and moved out at 17. I proceeded to make a solid career, earning a lot of money and doing good. And then the depression came back, I had to stop working and moved back home. I started getting panic attacks all the time and started on medication and going to therapy. I wasnt living anymore, I was just surviving. Life was just something I had to get through. I had to move back home, but managed to keep my job. My days was just work-eat-sleep on repeat. I lost all my friends and relied on my family 24/7. I went to the ER thinking my vains were going to explode time after time. I stopped wearing a safety belt in the car and always begged for it to crash.

I hate what my illness makes me. I can’t stand the feeling of winning life’s lottery and not being able to enjoy a minute of it. Everyone I ever let in ends up walking away when the bad times come, and I understand that. They won the lottery too, and they don’t wanna spend their time with someone who doesn’t know how to appreciate what she’s got. But I can only control it so much for so long. I know it’s always gonna come back. And when it does, it’s gonna feel as bad as all the other times.