Except the reality is that you’re working 24/7 to be able to afford the dream, and you’re constantly disassociating, and you’re body still won’t let go of living in survival mode after growing up as an immigrant in the middle of nowhere, USA. The older I get the more I realize that two things can be true at the same time. I live in my dream apartment and it’s beautiful and lovely, but I feel a deep sadness for the other aspects of my life that I sacrificed to be where I am today. I constantly get comments saying people wish they could live in my apartment, but the character limit isn’t long enough for me to reply and explain that I sometimes wish I could switch and have their relationship or friendships or social life or a just a brain that doesn’t constantly work against you with a cocktail of mental illnesses that often leave you barely able to get out of bed. In many ways, I feel like I’m behind (societal expectations are a bitchhh), and as I approach my 30th birthday, a part of ...