Perhaps the stars I see at random are remnants of the pain I inflicted on them when I stared at the most vibrant green grass I'd ever seen as a teenager. I stood atop a mountain of who I thought I was, having saved my allowance to buy books on biology and medicine, certain I’d become a surgeon. I knew I'd marry by 28 and have three kids, their names written in a purple sparkle gel pen in my diary.

It burned my eyes, but I couldn’t look away. The wind blew through my hair as I squinted, making it seem as though I had my eyes closed. My parents were unsure whether to bring me back to where I felt I belonged or buy me sunglasses.

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