Some days are better then others. That's what I tell people, the
people that listen and care anyway. Deep down, I suppose none of them
really do. After all, with my history of paranoia and hypacondria,
was should anyone believe I'm sick? Physically I'm amazing healthy
for someone who never sleeps, eats junk and believes in moving only
when I need to be someplace else or something's fallen asleep.
Mentally, that's a whole other concern.

I've studied psychology. Not, in long boring classes with tedious
lectures and agonizing reports on topics that, if you cared about
them at all when you started, quickly became the universe's most yawn
inducing field of converstation. No, I read up on things on my own.
That's the best way to learn things, without pressure and without
having it forced onto you. I'm rambling aren't I? Where was I? Oh,
yes, my mental stability or lack thereof. As, I said nobody would
believe me and they've no reason to, really. I'm infamous for coming
up with a new mental sickness for every day of the week, but even a
liar tells the truth once in awhile. So, this time, I'm telling the
truth.

I spend a great deal of time, thinking, thinking about this and that.
Concentrating on whatever guilt laden thing has decided to play with
my mind that day. Guilt comes easier to me then most other emotions
do and with guilt comes sadness and helplessness and with those comes
anger. Anger at the world and myself. I bite my nails. This is a
nervous habit and I think, subconsciously, it's a form of self
preservation. I can't hurt myself if I don't have the nails and I've
tried. Late nights, when it's dark and quiet and I can listen to the
dark games skipping through my soul. I've scratched and scratched at
my arms. Not wanting to die really, just to inflict a mark. Just to
punish myself for whatever it was I'd done that day to make my brain
mad at me.

I did stupid things all the time. Most of these stemmed from my
inability to act in certain situations. A sort of freezing of the
being, as it were. There are times when the panic sets in so bad,
that it takes all my strength not to curl up in a ball and scream. Of
course, if I told anyone, they wouldn't believe me. I'm overreacting
to nothing or just looking for attention or forgiveness. I don't want
pity just something to make it all stop. Something to make all the
darkness and pain go away. Something that will do away with the fact
I'm deliriously happy one moment, and clawing at my arms the next. My
arms take all my anger cause they're just more accessible since I
always wear long pants. Another of my subconscious safety
precautions? Could be, I've never really thought about it til now.


My attention is slipping as it is wont to do and I may never finish
this account into nothing. In the end, it won't matter cause as I've
stated over and over nobody would believe me. Perhaps they're all
right and it's all a lie so elaborate and elegant in it's telling
that even I, the speaker of the lie, take in and believe it all as
truth. It doesn't matter, either way, I'll live with this torture
until my dying day because I'll live with the lies or the truth of
the lies, whichever way it goes. There is no other path, for here I'm
surrounded by cliffs.