Every day I wake up with a deep sense of fear, sadness and dread. I don’t feel worthy of happiness, of having a life, of existing, of taking another breath.

At times I take it out on myself with slow, sharp, stinging cuts in my flesh. At times I take it out on my family – confused and screaming, blaming, hating them, wondering why they did this to me.

I don’t hate them, but I do resent them. I resent them for not feeling the same way I do. Or for not seeing it in me. Or for seeing it in me, but ignoring it. Especially since they instilled it. I have to clean up the mess.

I can’t sew. I can’t read. I can’t draw or do anything that gives me a sense of purpose without feeling ashamed. Ashamed of doing things that make my heart sing for the sake of it.

Things that make the heart sing are lazy, unproductive, worthless, useless, a waste of time. No point to them but a selfish gain of personal pleasure. If it isn’t making money or progress or adding value towards an outward appearance of status and “put-togetherness”, it’s a waste of time and energy and effort. It can’t be justified.

Psychotherapy, meds, doing the healing work oftentimes makes my “condition” worse. It, too is another form of progress. Judged with lesser or more respect measured on a spectrum of sanity, visible stability, collectedness. Pats on the back for striving towards who I’m not already and characteristics I hope to one day possess.

Once a satisfactory amount of days or months or years have gone by that death isn’t considered; complaints aren’t heard; worrying or crying or screaming out in intolerable pain is finally a thing of the past, I will have gotten “there.” But once there, maintenance is required. Backtracking is not an option. Ever.

The more I decline, isolate, accept, detach, let go, lift the veil, peel back the layers, the more I find myself yearning for someone else besides myself to convince me to keep going, to do the mundane things – eat, utter a little conversation, not check out completely and never come back.

It’s too much to carry both the knowledge of how my pain affects my behavior, my psyche, my whole being, and the knowledge of what I *could* be in any given moment or situation.

Acceptance and resistance. Two visceral pulls come alive, minds of their own, unable to sit in peace, equally weighted. Constantly squaring each other up and fighting like ravenous, wild animals. I am the prey. Torn apart. Again and again.

It’s not enough that, with my mind, I wholeheartedly disbelieve some terrible things about myself and genuinely accept some of my other positive attributes. My body always chooses for me. Body and mind playing tug-o-war, knowing damn well who wins every time.

“Give up already.” my weakened body pleas and groans. “I’m ready to rest. This is too hard. Just let me REST!” An inaudible, yet piercing-to-the-bone cry echoes off the walls of weary defeat. “No.” my mind replies, simple and to the point.

The ravenous, wild animals fight. Again and again. The deep sense of fear, sadness and dread predetermined and ready to attack the moment I wake and speak up to whisper so much as a tired, desperate, “No.”