My illness does not define me.
My illness does affect me.
My illness makes me hate me.
My illness makes me hate you.
My illness makes me angry.
My illness is a product of my childhood environment.
My illness is furthered by my adulthood environment.
My illness... My... Illness...
I'm sick.
I'm tired.
I'm sick of being sick.
I'm sick of being tired.
I'm sick of being sick and tired.
I don't know how to fucking heal.
I don't know how to know if I'm healthy.
I don't know if I want to be healthy.
My illness is so comfortable at this point.
I'm so used to being sick what would I do if I were healthy?
Would I smile more?
Would I cry less?
Would I scream with joy instead of anger?
I smile now sometimes real sometimes false.
I'm not always tear-streaked.
My screams are sometimes nonexistent.
Sometimes I'm catatonic.
Sometimes I'm alive.
Expressive.
Depressive.
I exist.
I wish I didn't sometimes.
YOU ARE READING
Rantings of Borderline Personality Disorder
De TodoThis is me. My pains and issues. The thing I post are true to the best of my knowledge. This is more of a journal. Welcome to my mind. My spider is named D'Vorah Dearest.
