They say picking at your nails is a form of self harm, I guess I just saw it as coping with everything.
Breathing through a panic attack seems to be the hardest part of anxiety and turning to people is the hardest part of recovery. I know better than to trust in people but I also know better than to look in the mirror and see something worth looking at. I am not cruel, I just have a way with the painful truth and maybe that’s why I prefer to be alone. I could write symphonies for you but I highly doubt it’s anything you’d be interested in hearing, because I am and always will be an abrupt ending to the story, the creak in the stair, the half cracked mirror just barely holding it together. I do not write words to make you happy I write because it’s the only way my useless thoughts may possibly mean something someday. I’d love to see a real smile on my face but it’s been so long I don’t know if i’m completely aware of what i’m feeling at this point. They used the word Bipolar to describe me along with a list.. Sometimes I feel like i’m just another mental case in a stack, just another unread book, and another unopened CD.