 For years I’ve held my breath when receiving results from bloodwork and other various tests. Not because I’m scared… But for a moment, I’m hopeful.

I don’t want to be sick. I want the attention that comes from being sick. I just want an “out” that isn’t in my complete control. And to avoid all the guilt that has been put on me to stay.

But that hope has always fallen short. The test results are always fine despite my screwed up hypothetical crossing of fingers and toes. While most might see those good results as a positive, I just see them as another “screw you” from the universe. A mockery of sorts. And a reminder that I’m stuck existing for God only knows how much longer.

I’m tired. Tired of breathing for the sake of others, who I’m always putting above myself and my immeasurable pain. Tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop for the millionth time, because it always does. And tired of countless medications being rammed down my throat, none of which do a damn bit of good.