I married a hurricane, and still get surprised when it rains.

That feeling when you catch yourself in a washroom mirror and think, "God you look terrible."
That feeling when your physical nails break at clawing your mind out of a creeping depression. Like shackles tied to the weight of your mistakes pulling you back to that place.
That feeling when you can't process what's fair and unfair. Where you went wrong and why you're not better to begin with.
That feeling when you're at a constant battle of worth, convincing yourself to exist. When old vices and bad memories hit you with a bone chilling gust.
That feeling when you can't fake it hard enough to hide the damage. Ripped to shreds, sewing them in whatever pattern to just get over it.

I am a lover, a dreamer, and someone who hides their pain well.
Just as death is inescapable, so are these broken nerves and mixed signals.
So is the reality that I'll never escape the pain, and the daily battle to smile and not mention the hundreds of error messages sent through my veins.
A reality that broke me once, twice, and countless times to come.
My head swims in unrelated words and feelings all processed at once.  

Making yourself a public martyr via claiming caretaker doesn't mean **** if your words of care and comfort are engraved with my name yet only serve your desires.
I am weak, I fall apart, and I am the glue that strengthens and repairs this invisible damage I was born with.
I am not a scapegoat nor an excuse.

I'll never stand between you and your family,
but I will point out when they use you.
My relationship with members will differ from yours.
There are somethings I'm not sure I'll ever forgive.
Simply put, we are different people,
marching through this life together.
You have to understand
you may be able to move on,
and I may not be able to.
I have a great fake smile,
but I am not going to lie.
That person is dead to me,
that's not something I joke about.
I am done with them,
even if you're not.
I hope you understand.

I wish that for just one
******* second,
I could turn your mood around
like a Xanex bar can.
I wish that thoughts of me
flooded your mind to the point
where the day is ruined without me,
like you do with your zombie bricks.  
I am so tired of being second best
to a chemical mistress.

Crying on the couch
thinking in circles,
when I look down to my phone.
It has an open, blank, message,
to my drug dealer.
"Woh, how did that get there?"
I close the message.

That was close.

Thing's that make me uncomfortable:

That feeling when you get mad at me,
because I didn't do the thing, you didn't ask me to do, cause I can't read minds; I'm not your parent.
That tone in your voice when you go off about how unfair the world is, triggered by the slightest setback.
The feeling when I sacrifice all that I am for the sake of your mood and happiness, in vain.
That sound of the exacerbated sigh when I ask you to run an errand, as if I am not also tired.
The pressure of carrying us both on broken legs.
The pit in my chest when I ask your opinion and you say "I don't care," but you actually do care, because whatever choice I make is laced in ridicule.
When you say you're doing something for me but you're just trying to make yourself feel better about doing it for yourself.
When you use my disorder as a justification or excuse, but when I actually need your help you seem burdened and annoyed.
That "okay then" moment when I give you everything you ask for and you take it as if you never wanted it.