Stop Playing the Victim. We Are All Victims, Then.

A “fictional” excerpt I wrote years ago, at the height of my pain. I read this now, and can’t relate to either character. However, I will share it to honour the experience as it was then, and to highlight that we all go through difficult times. Hopefully, one day, you too will experience an inability to relate to something that was written in another time.

I sat with my sister on my bed as she looked at me blankly. Her face was round and bloated, as if months of stress had caused her whole body to be in a state of inflammation. I noticed that her face was scattered with red pimples, another testimony to her state of dishevel inside.

Though she looked more unrefined than before her illness, Abby looked just like herself: a beautiful woman in her own skin and body.

She spoke with wide, unapprehending eyes, “Zara, my life is ruined.”

I flinched.

“What makes you say that?”

“Look at me. This medication is making me pudgy, my face is like a pepperoni pizza and I have the lowest self-esteem. And what makes it so much worse is that I have no control over it because it’s the anti-psychotics that is making me look like this and on top of that, I have PCOS.”

For the last couple weeks, Abby had been non-stop moaning about how she was fat and therefore worthless. It was bewildering to hear, as I could see nothing but skin and bones.