Cheeky as hell

I have many facets—places where I would most like to hide away.

I retreat into my darkness, ready for nothing at all;

I give a defiant "NO" to everything; I am stubborn, insolent, and unruly, and I have told many lies; one moment I am in high spirits, and the next, completely down.

I hate that I cannot control myself.

This isn't merely a matter of *will*;

It is simply my illness—

something people have absolutely no clue about.

They always think they know what they're talking about,

but they don't know a damn thing;

they cannot truly empathize with us.

I suffer from Borderline Personality Disorder.

Many people suffer from this condition;

we are all utterly miserable because of it.

I cut my arms with sharp objects—like razor blades—until the blood flows.

Watching the blood run offers a release for my rage—just for a brief moment, for a little while. In that instant, I am free; I hold the power. The blood no longer flows just of its own accord; I keep cutting until I have carved my anger away. It is a battle between "I want to live" and, simultaneously, "I want to die"—because in that moment, I hate myself so intensely; because I feel I do not deserve to live. And then, only one question remains: when my mother gave birth to me, was I a wanted child—or merely a mistake?