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It’s so hard to recover from personality disorders when you don’t even know why or how you developed them. I shouldn’t be, but I’m envious of people of who understand why they’re fucked up. I’d give anything, anything to have a proper narrative.

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Yesterday i drove to my friend from other city. We had to have sleepover. Insted of that i get drunk up and took benzos. I fell asleep and she couldn’t wake me up. She get scared, wanted to call for emergency, but she found my mother’s number im my phone. My parents drove and took me home. They threw all my pills.

I feel so funking angry at them. I know they did cuz they care about me. I didn’t mean to scare anyone. I just wanted to stop feeling the pain.

I miss only my drugs. I took just 3 pills and lost 43 of them.

I’m a pathietic junke . I can’t fight with it. I hate myself.

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People often ask me why I’m so “secretive” about stuff, especially related to mental health struggles. The thing is, I am actually not, never was. I used to talk and share and I still want to. But each time I’ve tried, I’ve had people lash out at me or explain what I should be feeling instead or they just get lost in themselves while trying to relate to me. Each of these responses are now a trigger for me, and I simply do not appreciate this. I try to make them understand about how else they could help if they’d like, but people insist on knowing what’s best for me, like I’m a 5 year old who does not understand things pertaining to myself? This behaviour is at best annoying and at worst very invalidating, to the point where I’d genuinely consider not asking for help, ever.

Yes I go into depressive episodes and don’t talk to people for days at a stretch, and then go through manic ones just after. I am not any of these people, but I’m constantly mistaken as either distant or crazy, and both are equally hurtful. And it sucks being treated as a monkey in a circus, constantly poked at to perform to please others. If disorders are so foreign to you, I think you could look it up, instead of asking me to constantly explain while you comprehend nothing except what you want to. Selective understanding doesn’t work when it comes to a real, living person who you care about. My brain cannot function as per your comfort. I cannot be “kind enough” and explain what sensory overload is while going through it in that moment, please thank you. Just ask how you could help, that’s all. Don’t ask for a person’s medical history or question the validity of their struggle while they’re going through a psychotic/depressive/schizophrenic/compulsive or basically any neurodivergent episode. Please be compassionate and do not add to their pain. It is actually kind of upsetting to see the number of people who have freaked out on me, even when they’d promised to understand. I did not choose this illness, I don’t like to feel like shit all the time. But I’m sick of trying to explain this, because my explanations are seen as excuses.

I know better than bottling up my emotions. But you don’t know better than belittling people with mental illnesses and seeing them as two dimensional objects with no emotional capacity. You don’t understand that other people feel complex emotions too and go through as complicated struggles as yours throughout their life. It’s easy to think that you’re the most important person in the room because you fought through shit that was thrown at you, but so did the others. I’ll still be waiting to find a person who does not have a saviour instinct but just wants to understand. Who knew that’d be so hard to find.

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“I don’t know what hurts the most, holding on or letting go. Reliving my memories and they’re killing me one by one.”

–1x1, BmtH

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I’m pathetic. So fucking pathetic. I think about you everyday. Every waking moment is consumed by you and what do you do? It’s been two weeks and already you’re back on tinder. I feel sick to my stomach. You’re still on my homescreen and yet already you’ve devised a new bio. You’re acting like I don’t exist. Like we didn’t happen. You’re cruel. Your profile should come with a warning. If I had seen I don’t think I would have swiped but even I’m not sure. It wasn’t worth it. All you did was put me through hell and now once again we’re strangers.

-R (10/31/20. 5:47 AM)

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I don’t know what to believe anymore. Even those memories I romanticized into a pure picture of perfection are flawed. I let things slip through the cracks. You pressured me. You made me feel weird. I don’t remember that. That part didn’t get memorialized. Of course not. My brain is convinced that you’re perfection when in actuality, you’re very far from it. You’re not good. Every single person I’ve told has been on my side. And yet still somehow I think you’re perfect. It makes no sense. I don’t think my brain wants to believe that you’re horrible. It’s still hopelessly in love with someone that won’t love it back. It sees how little you care(d) -both present and past- and yet still clings to anything. I don’t even know you. The person I met at first isn’t you now. The you now is callous and cold and heartless. You used to be sweet and charming. I think maybe it was all an act. And good for you, I had front row tickets to your show.

-R (10/31/20. 5:29 AM)

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