November 9th, 2003


(no subject)

Last night I broke down and cried to my mother. I know she doesn't understand, but I know she would do anything to help me and at least tries to understand. I know her generation isn't all that informed about mental illness. I think she feels better knowing there are people like me that I can talk to and get support from.
I hate when my mental illness affects me physically. I hate when I lose control. I am working on informing myself. After this week (read: after I cram for a test) I am going to begin reading literature on BPD. I still have to read "I hate you don't leave me" that Michelle lent to me, and I received two others in the mail: "Stop Walkig On Eggshells" and "Trapped in the Mirror".
I wish I wasn't sick. I am doing everything I can think of to manage it, but... it seems like a never ending battle that I am perpetually losing. Just as cancer eats away at the flesh, so mental illness devours personality. I don't feel like myself. I don't feel like the person I see in photographs that are supposed to be me. It seems like a completely different person. Someone with direction and possibility. I am exhausted from just trying to survive from one day to the next.
I don't know how you do it.