For the past eight years I’ve been trying to figure out and understand why I am sick.

My initial feelings were pretty much absent to the naked eye. I am not one to show my emotions off to the world, I’m quite the introvert and the masks that I used to wear in front of everybody could easily be summarized under the title “I’m fine” (insert the Ross squeaky voice if you want to amuse yourself). I never ever said no, I never ever truly complained, I never ran away from home, I never told the boy who broke my heart to fuck off, I never told one of my teenage closest friends that she’s a cunt, I never rebelled. I was the quiet kid, the smart girl, the obedient adolescent, the almost Magna cum Laude student and the introvert woman.

So, as you can imagine, at twenty one, when I heard of my illness, I cried for about a day and then I moved on. Everything was fine… but as Gabor Maté and basically all therapists would tell you, when your body says no, you should investigate. For the first few months after the diagnosis, nothing really triggered me to change or to examine the depths of the situation. I had heard of therapy and of how useful it was, but it didn’t really make sense to me. I had a perfect childhood, an ideal upbringing, all the gifts in the world, no physical aggression, no traumatic events. So, why do it?

Then, I got triggered. One of the nurses responsible with my treatment said some harmless words about my medication that made me have a small panic attack. So I started going to therapy and, for the first couple of sessions nothing really enticed me. I had no bad stories to tell, so why did I get sick? After eight years, I’m starting to figure it out.

Years ago I started talking to my illness. I called her Roza and I asked her to be friends and make peace. Because of obvious reasons, right? A friend would never harm you, while an enemy could easily do that. She was nice and calm and she left me alone for seven years. Last year, when things got a little bit rough, I started hating her and blaming her for every wrong decision and every awful thing that had ever happened to me. That’s not a friendly thing to do, right? I broke my promise and I betrayed our friendship.

Here comes the reason behind this post: it’s an apology towards Roza mixed with a love letter. So, my dear Roza, I’m sorry for hiding you from the world, I’m sorry for never talking about you and please forgive me for betraying you.

They say one can heal only when he stops benefiting from his illness. At first, I didn’t understand that and I felt it cannot apply to me. What benefits could I ever get from a debilitating disease? Well, Roza, you taught me how strong, brave and resilient I am. You made me feel vulnerable and show that off to the world. You made me learn to ask for help and accept it. You helped me get out of things I didn’t want to do when I didn’t have the courage to just say NO. You gave me a reason for being moody, depressed, angry or a bitch. You gave me permission to be a priority for others. You gave me a story to tell. You gave me a good enough motive to cancel plans. You showed me how much my family and friends love me. You showed me how much I hated myself. You showed me my shadows and my dark side, only to push me to see my gifts and my bright side. But, most of all, you made me feel special.

And, by God, that felt nice. I was and maybe still am intoxicated with that feeling. The special, brave girl that lives her life as normal. The one who overcame it all. The sick one who smiles. The debilitated one who doesn’t want special treatment. Like Harry Potter, I felt like the chosen one.

Well, my dear Roza, I say this with all my heart: let’s be friends again and please, if you have more lessons to teach me, do it gentler. I don’t need an illness to feel special, because I am. We all are. And why do we need to feel special? To be more worthy of love. Why do we need outside love? Because we suck at loving ourselves. We are so busy trying every method possible to be viewed as special, that we forget to consider ourselves special. I resorted to an illness. That’s my rose and the thorn stung me hard. That’s my addiction, my drug. What’s yours?