"I’m very high functioning. I’m an actress, who has perfected the part, because it never ends. Everyone knows that the best way to sell a part is to believe in it. I know that my performance is convincing when I have forgotten where the truth ends and the lies began. I am happy I’m very much akin to any other 21 year old, and I hardly ever think about dark depressing topics because I would much rather go shoe shopping. I am fun loving, frivolous, and a bit impulsive, I am friendly, and love my friends dearly. None of those are outright lies it just excludes the blackness seeping through my heart, depression, or the mental illness that is stealing my brain. It isn't factoring in the nights when I cry and try to slit my wrists, or the times that I’m drinking to get away from the pain."
(an excerpt from one of my pieces of writing called 'Of Perceptions')
Some days elude description. Of course that gives me this sinking feeling that blogging in fact may not be for me. There have been more bad times then good recently, and the good aren't seeming worth it. I don't even want to lie in the grass, because it was really itchy, and the stars don't seem as bright. Everything seems foggy, unimportant. I hate feeling so helpless. BPD is making me so miserable I don't know how to stand it. Depression is a bitch. I hate falling apart as often and badly as I do. last night was bad, today was bad, everything is doomed to be bad always.
I'm insufferable. I'm too depressed to even be slightly encouraged by the idea of lying in a grave, or floating in space. I want to die, but also I'm too depressed to try. If I lie very still, eyes closed, praying, will I be granted my wish? So many attempts on my life, and no success seems to be a testament to the depths of my failure. Not even sleeping gave me relief from my mind, rather it tortured me with nightmares. Why can't I feel better?
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