I feel like I should write more, but to tell you the truth I much rather enjoy reading all of your lovely words...

But anyway, yesterday I had met some old friends from summer camp when I went to their annual play. I had nice time and it was almost as if no time had passed...but there was something that was said that struck me.

One of my friends, A, is bipolar and has always been on meds, in therapy, and just on the brink of everything even while being the most cheerful person I know. She was telling me, rather unphased, how she failed junior year because of going in and out of hospitals so much, for attempted suicides. And I just want to cry, thinking how many times she had almost been lost forever in the short span that I hadn't seen her.

And then I think of myself--straight-A student striving for Ivies like her parents want her to, with plenty of straight-edge friends and a family willing to dole out money to make her as accomplished as she can be.

And she is also a cutter, a drinker, eating-disordered and haunted by depression's demons. She is not sure of her humanity and sanity, just as much as any mental patient is.

So what is the difference that has made our lives so separate, one spiraling downward and the other holding up the facade? I'm not entirely sure--perhaps I have lapses of clarity (or myopia?) that push me forward and make up for how often I trip and fall. Yes, it's nice to feel proud sometimes...but it never lasts long, and every time it's twisted into another reason for self-destruction.

There is one thing I'm quite sure of, though. I have the more dangerous disease. Suicide is outright depression, and I think everyone wants to move away from that point. But eating away at yourself bit by bit, all the while accepting praise and trophies from the other half of your life...you start to wonder, you know? You start to convince yourself that there is no problem--in fact, maybe you need both halves in order be who you are.

This feels dangerous, but

but


but


who could tell?