I am sad when I hold nothing in my hands and sad when I hold something I have not been given the option to reject. I resent the idea of living in my own squalor but reject the notion of tidying my own space. I decline to be in the company of others but detest the idea of loneliness in the dark of night. I am dubious of knowing exactly how my life unfolds but entirely terrified of not knowing. I never know what I want and I never want anyone to help me decide.

Realising you have mental illness puts a lot of things into perspective. Like, how not everyone thinks about killing themselves when they can't find their homework, or lose their wallet, or leave their coat in school. Like how it isn't normal to feel like you want to rip all of your skin off when you notice another thing you don't like about it. I hadn't realised all of that wasn't normal, because that was all I remembered feeling and I thought everyone must have felt the same.

I'm not even aware about how I feel anymore; I don't get angry about things I should and usually would get angry about; I don't get sad (at least I think I don't); I don't feel happy; I don't feel anything. I think I've just removed myself from being. There is too much to handle and I've just complete detached and I don't feel real or substantial, and I feel no consequence will come of my actions. All I'm doing now is going through the motions of being a real-life person, hoping no one will notice, or hoping someone will notice... Honestly, though, there is no time for me to have another break down, not in the next week, not in the next months. It's a marathon, and I cannot stop now, because if I stop I might figure out how tired I really am and never be able to start again.