In May 2019, I ended my engagement.
I finally decided I was ready for a relationship – a real relationship – about a week ago.
He dumped me yesterday.
We all know about my manic major depression and social anxiety disorder.
But, you know – that’s not enough. So now I have OCD’s disorganised cousin, am bipolar, body dysmorphic and can’t quite beat the dermatillomania.
I don’t think I’m fat – just ugly.
I finally am diagnosed with all my mental illnesses and understand myself, truly. It’s such a relief to know, not everything is me.
Also, I have a tumour. I mean they thought I did last year, but silly doctors – they only looked in my brain.
Also, my legs don’t work sometimes.
I finally have my dream job. I have autonomy. I am a creative. I am a businesswoman. I am a professional.
Then, forking civil war.
I finally started my own business as a result – a bakery.
The oven broke two days in.
I finally decided, yes – I want kids.
Then I realised mental illness is hereditary in some forms, and how could I ever justify doing this to someone else.
I finally decided, I’ll adopt.
No rebuttal. I couldn’t be happier. There’s a reason why, too.
I’d rather have a little version of my best friend grabbing my pants at the knees, knowing that’s someone that could be given a fair chance. If they turn out like me, best believe Momma is well-versed. It won’t matter what nature gave them – it’ll be okay.

I’m so happy. I’m so peaceful.

I finally know.

C’est la guerre, every day, but I love it.

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