And all of us are fighting ourselves.
Here’s some feelings I think we all have:
Social Anxiety: Do people think I’m weird? Can they tell? Am I supposed to let my friends know I have this? And when? What do I talk about with someone who doesn’t understand me?
My life is so different from theirs.
Paranoia: I know people think I’m weird. When are they going to leave me? What happens when they find out what I’m REALLY like? Can I even trust myself?
Is my perception of the world accurate or is it colored by my mental illness?
Obsessiveness: I look weird, don’t I? This thing I wrote makes me look nuts. How often do I look nuts? What am I supposed to do about it? I’m so far behind other people. I’m gonna be embarrassingly old when I’m able to do what I want to do. Will I be too old by then to be successful? Can I ever be successful with this?
Will my life ever be normal?
Isolation: I can’t relate to people. I’m too crazy. I must be creeping them out. I have to be alone right now. Otherwise I’m gonna flip out. People don’t know how to deal with me.
And I’m forgetting how to deal with them.
Depression: I am different from other people. I always will be. I will always have this. My life would be so, so much better without it.
And there’s nothing I can ever do to change that.
Camaraderie: Wow. These people are nuts. Is that what I look like? Of course it is. I’m nuts too. This is who will accept me. These are my people.
It’s just us against the world, baby.
Mood Swings: I did great today! Maybe things are looking up! Maybe in a couple of years I’ll be almost normal! I can do this.
Wait….I failed. This is awful. I will never amount to anything. Ever.
Risky Behavior: Maybe if I drink this/snort that/fuck him I can forget for a while that I’m such a massive fuck-up. I’m having fun.
For this couple of hours right now, I’m normal.
Loss Of Control: When am I going to flip out again? Are those pills worth the side effects? Do I need this much help just to function?
I can’t control myself. I can’t control how people see me. I have less options than other people.
My life is run by my illness. It isn’t really mine.
This isn’t really me.