Confessions from Glasgow

Living with a mental illness is like being the co-pilot of your own body. It's like having a large machine inside your head, vacuuming rational thought and converting it into poison, pumping it back out through your mouth in the form of insanity and hurt. I'm just so ultimately sick of having to deal with this stuff every hour of every day. No one believes you when you say that you'll bring them down with you, feeling alone is the biggest cliché, but all you have is you and your demons, detaching you from anything you ever knew, your happiness, your sanity, your own person. When it gets down to it you can't remember if you ever knew who you were, you certainly can't now and the lingering feeling of doubt is mainly fuelling by the thought that you almost certainly never will. I wish this manifestation of my crude, childish, unwilling side would evaporate, or present itself physically so that I could rip it out, break it apart and bury it where no one could ever acknowledge it ever again.

I need a drink.