It is Wednesday evening and I am sitting on the right edge of my couch to feel more comfortable with my sense of grief of being a left handed.

I remember my poor grandmother forcing me to handle the pen with my right hand: “Little darling just another p… my beautiful princess try with an s…”. And then all the letters faded away into the blankness of the paper. She was trying to convince herself: ”my little darling don’t worry! You will be a great lawyer also if you are left handed… it is more important to develop good communication skills rather then writing properly”.

Sure. But I was dreaming of becoming a writer. A left handed writer.

I got full marks in both elementary and high school and even though I was not good at Math I have always tried to get the highest score in all the fields of study. I was trying to pursue excellence rather than pleasure: “You have to be the best in everything no matter if you are happy or not”. I was always repeating to myself. And so it was.

When I didn’t get an A I was filled with panic and anxiety. I can hardly breathe sometimes. I started to take anxyolitics during my university years. Every night before going to bed: half pill under my tongue, the other half in the pocket of my blue coat. In the morning I hardly remember when I fell asleep. To prevent drowsiness I was used to take 5 cups of coffee and to smoke 20 cigarettes in spite of the acid reflux that was filling my mouth every evening.

At the end of the third year of my bachelor degree I had my first panic attack. I felt my right arm heavy and completely paralyzed. I was afraid of dying.

Some people die for love or even because they feel sad and lonely. I was dying for a score. I felt like a modern heroine when I proudly said to mother: “Mom I have to finish my exams before going to the hospital.” I graduated with high honors in Arts and Literature on 23rd March 2014 but I can’t remember If I was happy that day.

”What are your plans for the future?” the interviewer asked me when I won the Academic Excellence Prize in 2013. ”I will apply for PhD abroad, probably in United Kingdom”.

In 2014 I got my first job in a four star hotel and began to live on my own spending my money mostly in shoes, dinner and clothes. I wanted to have fun and be beautiful. At that point I had really everything to succeed.

But something  has gone wrong.

On 27th of September 2017 I lose my job. The motivation that I was given was that I was enable to build relationships with other people because of a lack of empathy.  I felt like a failure and with my had in my hands I was betraying myself for being not good enough.

It is Wednesday evening and I am sitting here on the left edge of my couch starring at the pale yellow wall in front of me. I was not good enough… but am I happy enough? While I am asking to myself this question I realize for the first time that I am not afraid of giving an incorrect answer.