Mental illness is both my blessing,
And my curse.
And my shame.
I love being able to experience my emotions so intensely,
To love so hard and so purely,
To be so full of joy I can't contain myself.
But I hate feeling the pain.
I hate how I overthink every conversation.
How every word can so easily cut like a knife.
How easily I can make something out of nothing.
I hate how small, meaningless things can cause bouts of panic, tears, and steal my breath from my lungs.
But I love the beauty of being broken.
I love the perspective it's given me.
I love the intricacy of a bruised psyche.
The love it gave me for music,
And the love it gave me for words.
My mental illness kills me, but also saves me.
Some days I want to take my own life.
Some days I'd never wish for any life but my own.
It took me a long time,
To realize that my mental illness is not my identity.
I am a separate person.
Bipolar mixed affective disorder and PTSD do not define me.
But to truly love myself,
I had to learn to love them too.
I had to learn to give myself the unconditional love I want so badly to give everyone else
And I'm finally getting to that.