How do you say it?

I’m trying to get up the courage to tell my mom I want to go back to the psychologist. It’s been, oh, five months since I stopped going and it’s just not working.

I’m anxious 100% of the time, terribly paranoid, and just very, very depressed.

Don’t I hide it well? What a trick I’ve learned.

But some of my “symptoms” aren’t so invisible. I’m a major bitch. Andrew, I don’t care what you say. I don’t. I hate how I act. But I can’t change it. I don’t like living with myself.

But I also hate looking at my pictures and being reminded of the happiness of the past. Even the recent past (a beautiful picture from Boulder). It hurts.

I’m not happy and I don’t know how to make myself cheer up. I would never resort to cutting myself. For some reason, it’s either nothing or everything. One extreme or the other.

I hate life. But I can’t end it. I don’t understand why you people put up with me, love me, nurture me. Why?

I want all of my friends to understand and believe that I love them, UNCONDITIONALLY. No matter what. And any weirdness on my part is merely my subconcious expressing my fears on the outside. I act strangely because I am worried about what they think of ME, not because of what I think of THEM.

Even writing this is another split of the heart and mind.

Who wants to be friends with a crazy person?