It's the middle of the night and all I can think about is how disappointed I am in myself. I haven't felt this broken and miserable in such a long time.

Or maybe I've been feeling this way forever and I've just been denying it.

Face it, every meltdown at therapy, every time I felt like a misfit leaving the psychologist office, every "calm down Alexa" I've said to myself--it's all proof.

Or maybe it's just a couple bad days here and there.

But then again, that's what I used to tell myself when I truly was hurting. Even though that's like looking at a stab wound and saying "it's just a paper cut."

If bad days are paper cuts, then I have too many **** paper cuts and not enough bandages.