erika | maybe they leave you alone, but not me.

Seriously, you're fine. Don't worry about it.

. . . ?

It. It being me, the things I do, the amazing pain as manifested through the tension between how I want to be and how I inevitably am, the sadness, the tears, the abhorrence of self, the desire of disintegration, the anger, the frustration, the endless lack of the energy, the ability (and half the time, the hope) required to change.

About. Around, circumference, navigation, estimation, some sort of knowledge that I don't have and never did, rather than just misplacing it, it is nowhere about.

Worry. About you constantly. About me too much. Wearing, draining, psychic vampire, can't talk to them, can't talk to you, tired of listening to myself.

Don't. Always, never, should, can't, won't, impossible and 'don't'—there may be 7 words you can't say on television, but god forbid you use any of the preceding ones in front of a therapist.

Fine. Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, Emotional. Fine. Freaked out, Irritating, Nervous, and Erratic. Fine. Faking Idiotic Niceness Everyday. Fine.

You're. I am. I am always. I am, she said, goes a song I don't remember. I am and I always will be, until I'm not, and sometimes I wish that would hurry up.

Seriously. Here are the rules of the house, as I understand them. Seriously, don't ever—sleep; eat; cry; talk; yell; get oversensitive; take a nap; leave the room; forget; lie to us; expect to be believed; leave your dishes in the sink; have an accident or pain; remember the truth; need something inconvenient; tell us what to do; ask us for help; need anything.