Did I watch too much TV as a kid? Was my upbringing more unusual than I originally thought? Is it my environment making me feel crazy rather than successful? Like a color optical illusion, to I unnecessarily pop next to all this gray? Am I repressing memory of abuse? Did I smoke too much weed, an accidental neurotransmitter reconstruction, broken beyond repair. Is it a tumor? Pressing into my brain, pushing all the right parts to make me feel insane. Do I have an iron deficiency? Is my blood bright green? Am I an alien? Is there a dusty, forgotten diagnosis hiding in the back of the DSM that fits me better, that suggests a tailored therapeutic model that will change my life? 

&amp;#x200B;

An insatiable hunger for answers consumes me. Because if this is it, if there is no reason, no cause, nothing to blame...all that’s left is me. Please let it be something medical. Let it be something tangible. I don’t care if there’s no cure. I need an excuse because the responsibility is too much for one person to bare. 

I don’t know why I’m not naturally happy. I don’t know why I need to fuck things up to feel a heartbeat. I don’t know why I make conversations awkward. I don’t know why I suck the air out of the room. I don’t know why I change for the better only an inch per year with extensive therapy. I don’t know why I distance myself from those I love the most. I don’t know why I dislike almost everyone I meet and love a select few with little reasoning. 

&amp;#x200B;

Please let it be something medical. Let it be something tangible. Because it if it’s not, it’s just me. And I don’t think I can handle that truth.  