I'm significantly happier than I used to be, but I can't help but cry when I'm alone late at night.
It was never supposed to be like this. None of it. But here I am, living it.
Late nights with my friends are the easy nights. I come home happy and too tired to do anything but crawl in bed and sleep so deeply my dreams get crazy. But now that I'm alone, only a few of my nights are like that and I have to succumb to how I got left behind and how I shouldn't have been. I become at home with the mess of my room, the clutter and chaos comforting. It's just another one of my mechanisms to materialize my absolute and utter helpless feeling.
I know I'm really sick. I've accepted that. Once I got past all the bullshit and came down to it and I saw what was really underneath my petty problems, I got it. It's not even that I'm embarrassed about it. I have great friends. They would support me. It's more that I don't want to become another teenager drug induced to feel happy again. It'd be like a submission. Like I'd be all those whiny brats who cry because their parents don't get them.
It's not that I want to be happy all the time; I don't. I just want a little control back. To be able to handle things and be able to work at things. And it almost makes me want to get some freaking help. But then my mind spins and I think who the hell would help me for free? Who would be able to understand why I can't throw that away or why I can't get out of bed?
I hate looking in the mirror. Not only because I hate the outside but because the outside is just an outcome of the psycho on the inside. Like Jekyll and Hyde, but the monster is winning. Always.