The realization of being sick was like barreling into ice cold water
Lying in my bed from dawn till dusk was the norm
The deep feeling of utter despair was as typical as a stomach full of butterflies
The constant weight of heavy eyelids was just a bad night's sleep
Or a bad week
A bad month
A bad year
Sadness became my schedule, and I followed it to a tee
Depression became my comfort
It is the one constant in my life
If I were to get help, if I were to get better
Who would I be?
I learned to hate myself before I learned photosynthesis or geometry  
I am wrapped in a blanket of hate and grief that I so badly want to shed

But if I let that blanket slip

What part of me will possibly be left?