It begins with dread. Dreadful mornings. Groggy, not the kind of tired that demands sleep, but a nagging voice telling you to stay in bed, because there’s nothing worthwhile out there.
Then jealousy. Envious of those who wake up refreshed, wake up to bright futures, wake up to a life worth living and flaunting.
Next comes the guilt. There is no one else to blame. It’s all in your head. It’s all on you.
Then the voice chips in. It tells you the drugs aren’t working. The doctors aren’t helping. They’re all out to get you and no one cares.
You’re left with fear, and impending doom, not knowing when you’ll break down. Afraid to leave the safety of your room, because you never know what might be the last straw.
The blood. The scars. The tears. The drugs.
A piece of paper with a name. A diagnosis.