I might be living a stolen life.

Not literally stolen, of course. I’m not one to believe there is a certain amount of happiness in the world, or that some just aren’t destined for it. Still, I know a few people who could have been here in my place. Women I never knew but who walked the same paper thin stage floor, women who danced on glass and fell through. Women who never stood a chance.

You’re bipolar? You must be incredibly talented. So many great writers were bipolar, did you know that? Agatha Christie. Virginia Woolf. Sylvia Plath.

But Sylvia died. She taped the door to her children’s bedroom then gassed herself to death using her own oven. As for me? I was born to the 21st century. I wasn’t burned a witch. My brain wasn’t fried on the table of an analphabetic doctor and my frontal lobe wasn’t…