In having bipolar disorder, I always saw the world in a very black and white sort of way.
Depression is my Saturday mornings turning into Mondays and Mondays evolving into impossible. It is the ringing of an alarm every hour of the day.
So I say his name. So I say attack. So I say no because apparently when you say a word enough it loses its meaning and that must be why it happened.
I have been called everything from a slut to a liar – a victim to a survivor. But it’s the word, “victim” that has caused me the most pain.
“Benson was aware that he may die, and was bequeathing his personal possessions to his friend.”
Do not be too fit. After a merge, you’re an immediate threat and you’ll go home.
A mindset really is the only thing that separates being a victim from being a survivor. I, for one, am choosing the second option.
I couldn’t tell you when it started. I’m scared to admit I don’t remember any “before.” It just always “was.”
I often find myself constantly scanning my environment. Checking. Looking. Seeking for danger or a threat or someone who could do bodily harm to me.
One of my best friends in the entire world is a Rwandan genocide survivor.