Woke up.
Cleaned the kitchen.
Cleaned the bathroom.
Cleaned the living room.
Cooked food.
Didn't eat.
Cleaned the kitchen again.
Got uncontrollably angry because I couldn't get a stain out of the carpet.
Punched a wall.
Laughed hysterically at myself for 20 minutes.
Had a panic attack and cried hysterically for no reason.
Forgot to eat.
Can't stop pacing.
Can't stop talking.
And talking.
And talking.
And talking.
Thought about killing myself.
Decided it would be more fun to stay alive.
I wouldn't die anyway.
I'm invinsable.
It's 4:00am now.
I couldn't sleep even if I wanted to.

I am swimming in the sea.
The water is warm.
The sun is kissing my skin.
I am floating.

               I am drowning in the sea.
               The water is cold.
               The sky has clouds.
               I am sinking.

Some days I feel like I am under water.
Some days I am afloat.
Some days I am a mixture of both.

When you experience intrusive suicidal thoughts 75% of the time,
You really forget what it feels like to not feel suicidal.
Having those thoughts there consistantly becomes apart of you.
Waking up in the morning and not thinking about ending your life is a breath of fresh air.
Like a weight is lifted off my shoulders.
But there are some days when not feeling suicidal feels strange.
Like a part of me is missing.
And I find myself wondering why I haven't had any intrusive thoughts in days.
Not that anyone actually wants to have suicidal thoughts.
You see,
I always talk about getting better.
How I want to get better.
But what is ¨better¨?
I didn´t hurt myself today.
I took a shower.
I went into society and talked to people.
Is that being better?
Has my mental illness completely disappeared?
No.
My brain chemicals are still imbalanced.
Today I was just able to function more than I did yesterday.
And maybe tomorrow I will function even more than I did today.
Every day I am growing,  and learning,  and coping.
But I will not ever be better.
I will simply be a different person than I was the day before.

I am a glass half full
Transparent and beautiful in my own right
But muddled
I am a glass half empty
Like the realist I am, knowing that sometimes a glass is just a stupid glass

What does a glass matter when all of them are ***** because I couldn't get out of bed today to get the dishes done
Why should I care about half empty or half full when I should definitely just drink the stupid water because I haven't all day and my head is beginning to ache due to dehydration

Why is it that sometimes I can take my life by the reigns and be the best version of myself but that other times it feels like some unknown variable has snatched them away from me and is driving down the freeway in the wrong direction going 90 miles an hour

How hard is it to believe me when I say that I'm okay
I am okay
I swear
But I'm drowning in a sea of my own tears
Oh dear, I wish I hadn't cried so much
Now I'm losing my way, falling deeper into this hole in my head, losing myself and losing you

When the sun rises it will all be gone
I'll wake up and everything will return to normal
And I'll sit at the table with my glass half full.

For ****'s sake.

How did we end up here again?

The soothing, annoying word flickers on my blue-back lit screen and I am ****** back to the tumultuous moment when once upon a time it yelled bipolar.

And here we go again.

My thoughts flick, flit, floss between teeth made for biting and real meat. They need plaque, collection, to grow and accumulate mass to progress. But there my flicking thoughts go, flossing.

I've always struggled focusing, but I just got excitable, got manic, and it would solve everything. Mania was my monster, my red bull, and now that its sated and off to Wonderland...

I'm left here, face to face, with a twitchy white rabbit wondering why I would ever think to use my pretty little head when its such a good projectile into the sky.

I had always wondered, in those whispering nights, when my hands couldn't stop moving and my head wouldn't shut up, if something was wrong. But it was silly, I had two already, full of worry then full of poles. Couldn't be another, could it?

Of course, a Grace of Wonderland always knows best, and here we are. Another bottle to drink to keep me sane.

I wonder if my fingers will thank the capsules when I might stop biting them? Or my toes? Is this why my toes always twitch and dance, why they stand center-stage in so many of my mild fantasies? After all these years, the divas that my lower digits have become may not appreciate losing their star titles.

I just want to be fine. I want to figure out how to move beyond all the strange misfires in my head. How did I survive so long without a notice? Inflates my ego to know I should have been caught by now.

Guess just like the White Rabbit, despite my widgets and worries, no one can stop me from running when I'm madly, absolutely, refusing to be late.

Graces only knows to fight with fire and fists. Tis the state of my Wonderland, and perhaps now things will only get better.

It's going to take a miracle for me to feel again.

I don't get these people. These funny, funny beings.

Oh, I'm seeing things again.

Psychosis. Crazy. Eyes staring down from treetops.

Alien hands reaching out for you, for me, through the stark darkness of my childhood room.

Lights blind me: florescent and scorching hot-white.

He's always in my dreams. Watching me, somewhere. I search for him but he doesn't exist.

I know that.

I know that the trees don't have eyes and nothing wants to touch me.

Nobody ever wants to touch me.

Maybe it's better this way.

It's better to not be touched, or looked at.

Only imagined glances, passes, fancies.

He's right there, in my dreams again. I'm searching for him again. Imaginary love is as good as it gets.

It'll take a miracle for me to get used to the fact that I'm here to work, eat, sleep and die. Sacrifice.

At 25 I've grown old and fixed on an idea of perfection.

A perception that I can't feel breathing beneath my fingertips.

He isn't real.

This world is real.

I sure as hell wish I wasn't real, too.

A steady ebb and flow providing unrelenting release.
A single moment snarled by callous disbelief.
A lock of curled honey hair scattered in the ash.
A taste of a once dripping wound dried in sand.

These are the lines for which you fall.

No, these are the bricks within the wall.

This is a descent into paltry madness.

But only half is gone this we must confess.

Two pieces of him, you, and I.
Some grotesque being, a monster
stitched together by cobwebs and lye
But hush do not worry for we found her.

So a third is removed a piece cut out,
you know of his truths, desires, and loves,
but you did not know them, him, or me?
If you did it might be easier to confess
that perhaps we should turn the lock,
it's time to throw away the key.

On nights that sleep won't come
Even when we call it's name
Singing it's praise in our prayers
Begging like basking street performers
Desperate as a drenched sparrow

Caught in a rain of my own
Trickling dark red drops of mildew
Down my weary shoulders
Cradling my sallow face
Clouding my blurred vision

These nights hang low like dampened skies
Hollow storms filled with empty thunders
Draughts wearing a wet cloak
Pretending to be an upcoming rain
Steered by gales of Arctic wind

Piercing through my decrepit bones
Dropping pins and needles under my skin
The pain coursing through my veins
As bright as the paint staining my fingertips
Dripping destitute and distraught

Devastating images drowned my mind
In visions of broken vessels
Sunken ships and battered corpses
Wearing broken sails like a second skin
Boiling blood that has turned cold
As waters of the Antarctic ocean

The future screams to me
And so does the past
It wants me to succeed
It tells me of my torments
I want it
I want nothing to do with it
I hear it screaming begging waiting
I hear it whispering whimpering waiting