Fix me.

I am told I don’t need to be fixed. That there’s nothing wrong with me, nothing wrong with how I was unfortunately made. But I want to be fixed. I want it in the deepest depths of my soul, I want it with every single fiber of my worn-out and utterly exhausted being. My illness transforms my wants into desperate needs anyway, like Jekyll turning into Hyde. It is a monstrous transformation because it reaches farther than simply my wants and needs. It alters who I am on a fundamental level. The switching back and forth is constant. And right now it feels unceasing and relentless and frightening in a way words will never be able to capture. I want to be fixed. I need a fix.

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