Treatments worked well enough for us to get by. Most people lived into old age, but the medication, like everything else, has never been free. Life was a privilege, not a right, apparently. Something you had to struggle for when you were unlucky enough to be born at the intersection of poverty and bad genes.

Your mental problem becomes a solution when it can be used to solve problems.

If you have never did a mistake, then death is impossibe, but then, death is a possible mistake.

And suddenly, lying in bed, I became aware of every inch of my body and I apologised to it, quietly. I apologised for bring so ungrateful for so long. Then I thanked my arms, hands and fingers for always trying so hard. I thanked my legs and feet for holding me up all the time. I thanked my brain for working so amazingly well and conjuring up thoughts and dreams and sentences and images and crazy poems. And I thanked all my organs for working together and giving me life. It had taken four and a half billion years for me to be here. Right now. In this universe. And in that moment, I felt totally overwhelmed at being alive. There could be nothing but there was everything. I didn't want to waste a single second more worrying about trivialities. Worrying that I'd never match up to an ideal that didn't even exist. Nobody is normal. We are all different. I had to make sure that every moment I had left on this planet counted.

Choosing to accept yourself is a political act. An act of liberation.

Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation enfolds me like a cold mist as I sit alone and wait at life__ shut gate. Beyond there is light, and music, and sweet companionship; but I may not enter. Fate, silent, pitiless, bars the way_Silence sits immense upon my soul. Then comes hope with a smile and whispers, __here is joy is self-forgetfulness._ So I try to make the light in others_ eyes my sun, the music in others; ears my symphony, the smile on others_ lips my happiness.