We sat in the shade under the rickety slide on the playground during recess. My friends and I waited patiently for our friend Stephanie to show us a birthday present from her grandma. She dug around in her pocket and pulled out a glittery purple keychain with her name engraved on the front. In my seven years, I had never seen anything so beautiful. Her name was spelled out in cursive that I had yet to learn how to write and the shiny purple color seemed to glisten in the afternoon sun. All of the girls “oohed” and “ahhed” at her gift and Stephanie even let us pass it around to get a closer look. But moments later my awe disappeared and rage washed over me. My stomach dropped, my heart rate increased and my fists tightened. I wanted that keychain.

My thoughts spun with fury: “Why does she have that keychain and I don’t?!” I stood up off the gravel and marched toward the school. The thought of Stephanie getting all of those compliments was just too much for me. I couldn’t possibly be friends with someone like that, I thought, and I didn’t talk to her for the rest of the school year.

Most of my life, I’ve struggled with jealousy. My parents tell me it stems from being an only child. I was showered with all the praise, toys and attention my entire life; I never had to fight with siblings over the TV or the bathroom and I never competed for my parents’ time or attention. I never had to learn to share. Everything I wanted was given to me, and if someone else had something I didn’t, I couldn’t bear to be without it.

Through middle school and high school, my reasons for jealousy evolved past glittery keychains but never went away. I got jealous of people’s clothing, their hairstyles and their facial features. I got jealous of the way people talked, the way they walked, and how they carried themselves. I got jealous of jobs I didn’t have, grades I couldn’t achieve, and relationships I wasn’t in. The familiar feeling of anger and resentment would creep inside of me when someone had something I didn’t. Nothing of mine ever seemed good enough and I found myself excluding others from my life because of how jealous I was of them. Stephanie wasn’t the first; I alienated people left and right throughout my adolescence because of petty things like an outfit or a better grade on a science fair project.

Boys took my jealousy issues to a whole new, painfully tragic and infuriating level. My sophomore year of college I dated a guy who was emotionally unavailable and apt at infidelity. After a year, he ended our tumultuous on-again, off-again relationship to be with another girl. The three of us worked together, so the thing I wanted the most but couldn’t have was displayed in front of me during every shift. The jealousy I felt at work was so overwhelming that my knees would tremble and my breath would catch in my throat every time I saw them smile at each other. The situation hit an all-time low when I decided to, in a fit of masochism, drive to his house in the middle of the night to see if she were over there. After seeing her car in his driveway, I turned around and drove home with a heavy heart. I didn’t feel better, I didn’t feel accomplished, and I didn’t feel any less jealous. I realized in that moment that there was nothing I could do to take the jealousy away this time. That girl had the guy I wanted and no matter what I did, no matter what I said, and no matter how hard I tried to alienate them from my life, he wanted to be with her and not me.

I was ashamed that I had caved to another fit of jealousy. I had always hidden my feelings inside, but hiding out in my car, trying to peer through this guy’s window, made me feel lower than low. I felt so disappointed with myself that after that night I forced myself out of my jealousy. I halted jealous thoughts before they had time to affect my actions, I removed myself from situations that would put me into a jealous rage, and most importantly, learned to just be happy for people and to be happy with what I have. Constantly wanting what others have is exhausting and I’ve wasted too much time worrying about what my life was lacking. It pains me to think of all of the great friends I could have made, or friendships I could have sustained, if I would have just let go of the jealousy I felt.

I can’t say that I don’t still get that familiar stomach drop or feeling of resentment when I hear about someone getting an internship I want or hearing a teacher give a better comment to fellow classmate. But I don’t let it control my life or my actions anymore. I force myself to think only about what I am able to attain and to focus on not letting myself get caught up in wanting something more or something unattainable. My sanity is worth more than a glittery purple keychain.