I will always remember the day Grandma exclaimed how much of a joy my brother was. She would call him her perfect little flower.

As a child, it didn't mean much to me. But as I grew older, I came to realize the truth behind her words...

He was a daisy blooming in the spring. Where as I, a dead rose, slowly withering away. However, it wasn’t my choice, nor was it my brothers

Because a flower doesn’t get to choose what it grows into. It’s gardener determines how to raise it, how to treat it, and how to tend to it's individual needs.

Society was my gardener.

My point is, society labeled me as a dying rose, so eventually, I believed them.