I thought if I told myself that I was ok enough times that I could actually start to believe it. That somehow, I would eventually morph into the perfect picture of normalcy. That I could be somewhat happy.I was wrong.I wasn’t ok.Not even a little bit.This…sickness. This affliction… it ensured that I’d never be normal. That I’d never find contentment. That I would live out my days alone and unloved. And I honestly thought I was fine with that realization. I was resigned. No one deserved to have to deal with my shit. I wouldn’t wish that upon my worst enemy. Especially since my worst enemy was me.I lay curled up in a ball on my bed, humiliated and mortified beyond belief, staring at the glass jar of tiny paper stars.253.I know I should have added one. I know I should have brought that number to an even 254, but I wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t fear that consumed me. It was rage.Why couldn’t I have just fought through it? Why did I have to freak the fuck out like I always did?
