During the warm days when the majority of the people sat in the open-air cafés or simply strolled through the streets, I remained shut up in my little flat, which, by the way, I called "prison", and tried to cool my body.
I had tried everything to get relief from this plague. After the ordinary medicine did not help me, I turned to the alternative but without success. I drank dozens of different teas and other potions, was pricked with needles and massaged with scented oils, but there were no positive results, and I was depressed, asking myself, wasn't it better to kill myself already now and get rid of suffering for ever?
My hope sparked again one day, however, when a doctor explained to me that there was an operation involving cutting some nerves which lead from the body to the brain. The operation was simple but it could also be dangerous and it had many secondary effects. Some people had died, some had suffered even worse than before the operation. But I was ready to risk everything, even my own life. I wanted at least for once to sit among people without thinking of my forehead dripping sweat or drops running down my back. I wanted to hold a girl's hand in my own without feeling ashamed because of my sweaty palm.
Since I had came to Sweden, I had not stopped visiting doctors. One time, I broke my leg, another time my thumb, the third time a got pneumonia, the fourth, I was racked with excruciating stomach pain. At times, when I lost the desire to live and saw my existence as meaningless, I would cut my veins and with my own blood paint the walls. After such excesses, I felt well for weeks, especially when I met a psychiatrist who tried to persuade me that Sweden was the best country in the world and that I was an ungrateful refugee who was blaming others for his own failure. He could never understand that I had felt much better in the war surrounded with people then now sitting lonely in my flat surrounded with machines who look like humans but never tell you one single word.