I know I shouldn’t, but I am starting to become tired of not your mental illness, but you. I understand that you act the way you do because of the thing that possesses you, but it’s getting close to the stage that you are becoming unbearable to live with.
I have already reached the stage that I have become tired of you. It isn’t really the task of having to take you to psychologist appointments – it’s the continuous howling and crying, the periods of relentlessly attacking those around you, and the little reminders in daily tasks.
I’m starting to become tired of having to tip-toe around my house, our house. I’m sick of encountering you when you’re in that state. I hate the way you provoke me, trying to fish for negative comments, and I hate it when you twist around my words to sound as though I attacked you. It’s like you want to stir yourself into hysteria. You’re searching for something, anything to start up the crying and screaming. I must constantly remind myself that it isn’t you doing this. It is the illness that’s at fault. But I’m starting to think it’s less the illness and more you.
When you’re not sobbing audibly in the other room, I’m still reminded of the situation. It’s the times I have to remember to throw out the junk mail catalogues which feature thin women, any media which could stimulate negative thoughts in you. It’s the times I go to open a letter and forget where I hid the scissors, so I have to tear it open with my fingers. It’s the times I hop into the shower, and only after I’m under its stream do I realise that I’ve left my razor locked up in the padlocked box hidden in the back of my wardrobe, all to stop you hurting yourself. I’m tired and I finish my shower, my legs unshaven another day. If I forget to do these things, you’ll definitely end up bleeding in a state of hopelessness.
I know that it is a terrible disease not even suitable for the most evil of people, so why you? I often ask myself, “Why didn’t I get it? Why couldn’t it be me with the problems?” because I feel incredibly sad for you. Sometimes I’ve ashamedly asked myself this, wishing I was the one with the disease so for once I wouldn’t be the one on the receiving end.
I know I’m becoming more than tired of this situation. I’ve started to breakdown. I’m trying to retain my patience for you, but it is teeth grittingly hard. My mood is linked to yours. I’ve become unproductive. I can no longer concentrate. My university grades are slipping and essays aren’t being done. When you scream I hide in the other room, bang my head, binge eat and rip my clothing to relieve myself from the stress.
I’m scared of getting to the stage where I just can’t bear you anymore. I hate this situation we’re in. I just want you to be better.