This is for me, because I don’t have anything for you anymore but residual pain. Although that’s from you than for you.
I remember the first day that I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed, and how that day became two, and how those two days became three, and how those three days stretched to a week.
My birthday is coming up. I hate my birthday.
I am a suicide survivor.
I read once that every relationship could be defined as a power struggle, with the winner being the one who cared about the other the least. I lost.
There is nothing trendy about Bipolar Disorder. There is nothing glamorous about Bipolar Disorder.