|Oct 13 2007|
Sometimes I want to believe that I don't really have a problem. That when I wake up in the morning, everything that happened before now was a bad dream, and now that I'm awake, I don't have to worry. I want to believe it so bad sometimes it makes me sick. And sometimes I let myself believe it for a little while. I tell myself the doctors were wrong, and that I'm under control, that I've got a handle on it. That I don't need the medication and I don't need the therapy, I can walk all by myself, and not walk down that other road, the dark one. My desire to be an independent and functioning member of society has not lessened with my descent into hell, or with my road of recovery. If anything, it has increased my desire to be considered functional.
But I know that my logic is faulty. I still need the help. I don't want to need it, but I undeniably do. And even with the help I do get, I am struggling again. When the path was looking so bright before, it's getting cloudy again. The 2nd job I started is starting to put strain on me. They ask things of me, and I can't say no. I think to myself, "I must be normal if I can do all of these things." I think that until I have run myself into the ground trying to be 10 people at once. Am I going there again? I hope not.
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