I've got a secret. A secret addiction that I hide from everyone, including myself. A morbid curiousity of sadness that makes me unable to exist in the happiness I am surrounded by.
It took me months to find out I was in the midst of the worst depression and anxiety attack that I had ever been in; it took me weeks to reach out for help; and then it took me months to thankfully climb back out.
I was supposed to be special. But I'm not. Not in the "Bill Gates" "Steve Jobs" sort of way. And that's unsettling for me. I'm not a great. But I was supposed to be. But I'm not. And that realization has taken me years of self hate to endure and surpass. I am not a Great.
There was no book about this growing up. There was no warning about how intrinsically I would change when my heart left my body in two separate pieces in the form of these perfect mini-mes that will inevitably grow to hate me.