Sometimes I wonder what a human being is really made of. Are we, in some strange way, built like machines? When a bike stops working, we repair it. When a car breaks down, we replace the damaged parts. Somewhere along the way, I found myself wondering if that was all doctors were trying to do with me—repair my brain and body so they could function again.
Just as an engineer builds a machine, medicine seemed to be rebuilding parts of me. Tablets were meant to regulate my emotions, my thoughts, and my behaviour. But there were days when it felt less like healing and more like becoming someone I no longer recognised.
There was a time when I wished I had complete ownership over my own life—over my feelings, my choices, even over when my story should end. I believed that perhaps some things were never meant to be repaired, and that constantly fixing something broken only prolonged its suffering. Temporary repairs often felt artificial, as though they were covering cracks instead of understanding why they appeared in the first place.
Yet somewhere beneath all of that resistance, another thought quietly existed.
What if life was more than repairs?
What if healing wasn’t about becoming someone else, but about discovering parts of myself I had never known before?
I remember holding on to a single thought: if there was even the slightest possibility that life had something more to offer than pain, perhaps it deserved one more chance.
Looking back, I think that hope was much stronger than I realised.
