Aruga Rie’s Perfect World released in 2015 (in translation in 2018). In it, Tsugumi, an interior designer, reconnects with her high school crush Ituski at a business gathering. They spend some time reminiscing about the old days and Tsunami finds herself reminded of why she liked Itsuki all those years ago. It’s only when Itsuki asks the waist staff for his wheelchair that Tsugumi realizes he’s disabled. A car accident in college, he explains, resulted in a spinal cord injury.

Tsugumi is shocked and finds herself pushing her feelings reflexively aside, thinking, “I couldn’t date a guy in a wheelchair.” As she and Itsuki spend more time together, however, she finds herself interrogating the “whys” of that instinctive decision and discovers the reason is the inherent, hidden prejudice she shares with the people who whisper and stare when she and Itsuki are out in public together (and certainly when he is out alone).

It’s only then that Tsugumi realizes how important Itsuki has become to her and that his efforts to push her away come from his own fears of rejection and imperfection. But maybe, Tsugumi and Itsuki realize, “perfect” isn’t so important after all.

The truth is, no one’s life is perfect. Literally no one’s. Some people cultivate a perfect image on social media and hey, whatever gets you through the day. I’ve always tried to be honest because somewhere out there is another mom going through the same things, and the camaraderie of “thank sweet baby Satan, it’s not just me” saves lives. Actual lives.

Partners fight. People say stupid shit to each other. Sometimes they make up. Sometimes they don’t. You try. You fail. You totally melt your Styrofoam cosplay blaster and you don’t even know how. It’s fine. Someone else just did the same thing and you can laugh about it together instead of vowing never to cosplay again.

I’ve also tried to be honest about mental illness and treatment. Because for some dumbass reason, there’s still a stigma around it that keeps people from getting help, and that is not okay. I tell you this as someone who dragged herself through anxiety and depression and probably bipolar disorder and anorexia and postpartum psychosis. I don’t know how I did it. I needed help. I eventually got some but not enough and not fast enough, and I have no idea how I made it to getting the right meds at 35 years old.

I cannot say this often enough or loud enough:  Do. Not. Be. Me.  Please. I beg you.

This is all complicated by chronic illness – by something I didn’t start calling a disability until I was 41, despite the fact it has drastically affected my life for the worse for more than 20 years. I have lost so much to migraines – an increasing amount since I suffered a TBI doing the one kind of physical activity I’ve ever enjoyed because someone else was irresponsible.

I remember the first migraine I ever had vividly – I was 20 and sure I was having a stroke. I’ve been treated on and off since then. but it it was only last year I found a neurologist who was willing to spend time investigating the cause(s) and refer me on to two sub specialists when the first two rounds of medications didn’t seem to be doing much. And despite my having had multiple MRIs and CTs I was told were “normal,” this neurologist paid attention to a notation in the report every other doctor I’d seen apparently felt was a throwaway. She ordered a second, more detailed round of imaging and it turned out there was, in fact, something to find.

The MRAngiogram no one else had bothered with revealed that, on top of whatever neurological misfires I have preprogrammed and whatever the traumatic injury had done to worsen the electrochemical issues, I also have a congenital defect in the vessels that drain cerebrospinal fluid out of my skull and into my spinal cord. What does that mean exactly? It means that those vessels narrow as they reach the base of my skull. (I got to see the MRI and as a nurse, I have to tell you, it was kind of rad to see my own brain.) That means the fluid, which my body should be calibrating to proper pressures in both my spinal column and skull, pools in my skull.

Now, skulls are hard and once they settle into their final shape, they don’t have much give, which makes sense because brains, which skulls are meant to protect, are pretty delicate. When there’s too much fluid for the space of the cavity, however, that lack of flexibility can be an issue. Rather than pushing outward, all the pressure pushes in. Against your brain. Against my brain and also, because I’m apparently very special, the back of my eyes. (Did I mention the opthoneurologist told me I might go blind? There’s a possibility the excess pressure will damage my eyes and/or optic nerves badly enough I’ll go blind.) That excess pressure was contributing to my migraines as well.

Three strikes.

All of that and none of it visible. Catch me walking down the street and you would never know. Look me in the eyes while I’m trying not to pass out as I wait for my meds to kick in and the vertigo to (hopefully) go away and I won’t look any different than I do on a good day because I am a really good actress. I’ve had a lot of practice.

Much like Itsuki’s “phantom pain,” my disability is invisible, but I hurt, on some level, every day. My hearing is damaged but because it’s from brain damage and hearing aids won’t work, people think I’m ignoring them. Many days, my vision is altered on the left side, but it’s not something that can be corrected so, again, people think I’m ignoring them. I can’t think. I lose words, and let me tell you how devastatingly terrifying that is for a writer. Last week, I forgot the login code for my work phone. The one I’ve been using for seven years. I can’t drive because I lose my sense of perspective. I get dizzy. I throw up if I change position.

But no one can see it.

No one can see this thing that is affecting me so brutally.

I’d never want anyone, not even my worst enemy, to experience what I do. I’ve sometimes wished I could touch someone and they’d experience, just for 15 or 20 seconds, what a migraine feels like so maybe it would be a little easier to believe me. That they could understand how fucking exhausted I am all the time from the medication I have to take to keep the pain away – drugs that are supposed to make me feel better and just make me full a more functional kind of awful.

I know that sometimes it’s hard to be my partner and my friend. Because I cancel plans more than most people, often at the last minute and I’m vague about why. Because I’m moody. Because I disappear. Because when you prod about where I’ve been or what’s going on, I answer with a snarky or vaguely pathetic meme and then launch into weird, funny historical facts. It’s because I don’t know how to ask for help and the few times I have, I’ve been told to get myself together.

Also, like Itsuki, I don’t want to be a burden. As someone who was told, “Not every sentence has to have an I in it,” I am paralyzingly afraid of taking up more than my fair share of a conversation – more airtime than I deserve – which I’ve been trained to believe isn’t very much (despite the “I Know My Value” tattoo on my forearm).

Also, like Itsuki, I don’t want sympathy. I don’t want pity.

I want to live. Despite all that, I have a whole ass life and most days, I like it. I like it a lot. I am covered with scars from getting here, but I’m at a place where I’m okay with that. And the fact is, everyone has bad days no matter how perfect their life is. A good proportion of the bad days are bad for a reason other than the damn migraines anyway, just like plenty of Itsuki’s bad days are bad because he thinks the kitten escaped or his design didn’t win a competition.

So you should read Perfect World. Understand that when people you love cancel or withdraw or say, “I can’t,” it’s not about you. They still love you as much as they did before. They want to have coffee with you and go to the movies. They want to see you and travel with you. It’s simply that in that one, particular moment, they hurt too much. Maybe they can’t hear or can’t see or can’t walk straight. Or everything smells like dryer sheets and gum. Or that even though they can speak properly and have known you for 15 years, they can’t remember your name.

Be patient. Be kind. And be part of their lives instead of part of their cage.

Volumes 1 and 2 of Perfect World by Aruga Rie are now available from Kodansha Comics. Additional volumes are available digitally and coming to print soon.