I made a wish list in the middle of an anxiety attack once. Crumpled it up, tossed it toward the garbage, and reached for the bottle lexapro.

I wished a lot of selfish things. Looking back I feel a bit embarrassed, for I know I put draining effort into not being selfish on a daily basis.

I wished I could attend Frank Sinatra’s live performance of “Nancy with the Laughing Face” in an old jazz pub.

I wished the automatic lights wouldn’t turn on when I walked through the old building on campus at night, so that I could feel a sense of calmness.

I wished that when I needed to, I could cry in public without people staring at me as if I were a fit ridden infant.

I wished he would confess his feelings for me so that I didn’t have to.

I wished that peeling an orange wouldn’t leaving the rind film under my stubby nails.

I wished I could break the habit of biting my nails.

I wished the piano in my house was tuned and that I could even still play the piano.

I wish my friend didn’t make me feel like everything was a competition and that I was always losing.

I wished a boy would give me attention. Enough to make me feel wanted.

I wished I didn’t feel the need to apologize after everything I said aloud.

I wish people cared more about my feelings — genuinely cared.

I wished I knew what the afterlife looked like.

I wished I could confidently say the word February.

I really wished more people would acknowledge how good I actually am at whistling.

I started wishing that wishing on a shooting star would work more often because I really have not been having much luck with the universe.

Two months later, I cleaned my depression room and was reminded why I quit basketball in the ninth grade. I can’t make a shot. There layed the crumpled list behind my trash can. I picked it up and began to unfold it with excitement, pretending it was a love letter even though I knew exactly what it was.

As I read through this list again, I was in awe of how nice these wishes would be to come true and like I always figure out, later than ideal, I’m not a selfish person. I can want things and I can own that. Nothing on my list hurt others. I wasn’t wishing for my arch nemisis to have a fatal accident. I was wishing for recognition that I could pull out of my memory banks on a bad day, love that would relieve me of the loneliness that seems to be too comfortable staying in my house, and a sense of worth in a competitive world.