For years I have put on a brave face and lived by the words “fake it ‘till you make it”. Now that I have passed the point where I’ve started to be honest about how miserable I’ve been, I feel guilty. I feel guilt for lying to people, deceiving them with this idea of who I was while cheating them out of the real thing. I feel guilt for not being able to feel any real connection to people at times, even those who consider themselves my friends. I feel guilt for my family, for making them feel inadequate and helpless while they try to understand why I think about ending my own life.

On those days where I’m really questioning my mortality, I’ll open up my bottles of medication, pour them out into my hands or on my bed and just stare at the tiny pink and white pills. Right there in front of me is a way out, but this frightens me more than it gives me comfort. For about an hour I’ll have the same conversation with myself that I do every time I pop the lid on my little orange prescription bottle. The logical thinking that I used to pride myself on is in such conflict with the way I feel most days, and that alone tears me apart. This disease has eaten its way into every facet of my life, and now it is trying to take my reasoning from me.