Mental breakdowns have become a part of my daily routine. Identity crises have become my identity. I'm anxious when I'm not anxious. I have learned to love my depression. So much so that I have allowed it to hinder me from seeking treatment. What would happen if I lost it? Depression, after all, is my only friend.
The greatest thing that a person can ever say to me is, "No, how are you really doing?" I'm still waiting to hear those words come out of anybodies lips other than my own.
Short answer: Terrible.
Long answer: Fucking terrible.
Is it okay that I would rather stay up through the night and talk instead of fuck? I'm more of a mental stimuli type of guy. (Honestly, I'm not even 100% sure that I am using the word stimuli correctly. But I know what I mean, and that is good enough for me.)
Too many people have left my life for me to ever believe that you are capable of staying. Leaving, that's believable. Staying, that's some made up bullshit. Love-- it's temporary. Abandonment-- that's inevitable.
People used to always question how I was so optimistic. Two possibilities: