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I read a lot about people dealing with mental illness. Maybe even too much. But I hardly ever read a story that speaks to me because mine differs in one crucial point. I am not the protagonist. The protagonist is and always has been my sister. She has Aspergers, she is anorexic, she suffers from depression, she can't work, she can't live on her own. Certainly none of this is her fault and I love her dearly, but the problem is that I suffer from mental illness myself. I am socially awkward, but not as awkward as her. I have an eating disorder, but I have never been as skinny as her. I suffer from depression, but I never tried to take my own life (I have only thought about it 1.000 times). I can live, I can work, but only barely, always on the edge of breakdown, often like a zombie. And while she gets help, while everyone cares for her, there is simply no room left for my problems. I have to be the healthy child, the good one, the hope of the family. But that has never been me and I highly doubt it ever will be. So after denying myself the right to be ill for years, I have fled. Now I live in a new city and for the first time in a very long time I can breath again. And breathing does not necessarily mean that I feel better. But what it does mean is that I can feel myself again and that maybe I will finally get help and try to one day be the protagonist of my own life.