I tell myself I’m grateful for the life I have, regardless of my circumstances. The major attachment issues, the crippling anxiety, gosh even the constant isolating feeling that poisons my heart more and more as the days grow longer.

I am grateful, but at what cost?

The unfairness that justifies itself as the bare minimum. The lack of empathy normalised behind the words “at least…”.

“My marriage is falling apart….at least you had a marriage”

“My dad passed away….at least you knew him”

“My life is falling apart….at least you get to live your life”

Ever since the accident I have felt useless, incapable, unworthy, pathetic even. I can’t hold a pen without feeling a sharp pain strike up my forearm. Every time I gaze into the mirror there’s a stranger staring back at me mirroring my movements.

What use to be skin and tissue that shielded my insecurities are now just bone and eschar. All put on display for the world to see my broken, damaged self. I know how the world perceives me, hell I agree with them.

I pity myself, as they do.

I avoid eye contact with myself, as they do.

I judge myself, as they do.

I notice the pity stares that watch from afar, the heads that turn as I walk by. It’s ironic really, craving attention your whole life just to be left disappointed as it wasn’t at all what you hoped it’d be.

Yet I’m grateful, not for surviving, because that’s what society expects us to be. I mean you can’t grieve without being sent gifts, you can’t mope around without being an attention seeker, you can only take what you get. No matter how shitty or cruel it is, life is unfair and you can only dream of the life you could’ve had. Hope it’s the life to come, no matter the difficulties anchoring you down, pulling you in anticipation to only watch you drown.

I am grateful but only because I am hopeful.