And i wish I could say something other than “i want to die,” something else that holds the weight of those words with less of the risk. But the one thing that heals me has shamed me, hung me, drowned me, tore me to bits and hot-glued me back together, humiliated me, made me look the stupid, weak fool. Made me look ignorant. Made me look childish. Made me something I’m not. What do you do, then? What do you do when your medicine is meant to degrade you? What do you do when happiness is held up on a string that the world wants to cut away?