No matter how good I was, no matter how much I pleaded for it or worked for it, I could never make everyone understand me. If my self-esteem was dependent on other people’s feelings, it would never be under control. I’d be on a ship rocking back and forth between emptiness and salvation, never able to really find my feet. 

I was trapped in dichotomy—certain of two things at once that couldn't possibly agree. Believing what happened wasn't bad enough to be so shaken over, but still coming undone. Blaming myself entirely, but still feeling powerless. Standing on the razor’s edge, knowing that I was doing myself wrong, but falling back in every single time.

And I know I’d rather be happy and bland than tortured and interesting. Yet, sometimes it still makes me angry, that I don’t have the option to destroy myself anymore.

People who have never dealt with mental illness will never understand know how legitimately triumphant it feels to decide to take a shower and then actually do it.