It is a hard thing to be a self-diagnosed manic/depressive hypochondriac. 

The problem with being a hypochondriac is that too frequently you are convinced that you must have thyroid disease (3 times now), even though you’ve never had any sort of ailments similar enough and to the scale of comparison with thyroid disease symptoms.

The problem with being manic/depressive (and currently in a, somewhat self induced because of the marijuana dependency/self-medication, depressive phase) is that you are afraid that you are just crying wolf, because haven’t you done that so much before?

The problem is that you wouldn’t be crying wolf this time. This time the wolf is real. 

So I have gone to therapy. So I have stopped, and gotten worse again. So I have gone again to therapy. And stopped. So here am I, on the verge of a new beginning (you should know that I automatically typed nervous breakdown before rewinding and typing in new beginning — that seems pretty indicative of something, eh?) … I am ready to leave. I am ready to start over. 

But I know these things, these real things that I keep trying to deny, survive, bargain with, and overcome, they will follow me. Now I believe the things I carry with me are items of baggage like Anxiety, Depression, Addiction. I am also burdened with Insecurity, Loyalty, and Pride. 

Pride. Sometimes I am so chagrined by admitting I need help that I shut down. And I opened myself up for a man, a beautiful, kind, wonderful, albeit unreliable stoner child. He has grown so much with me, but what he does not understand is the complex state of womanhood and how much more guarded it is compared to the whims of young girls. I am learning this hurt, because I opened myself too soon. I have conducted myself with such poise around attractive, older, sexually charged men that I knew, intellectually, could have taken me, heart and soul. Instead, they, intellectually, took my heart and soul. But did not touch my body.

Instead I gave my body to you, in addition to my heart and my soul, which you learned was a dangerous place. Dangerous, unbridled, I know this all too well because I have powered on in states of delirium because I cannot sleep or because I am feeling too much over something my mind can tell itself over and over is not important but my heart will not stop because it suffers. No matter how much I shouldn’t I still feel it. 

So my Pride is a burden, rather than a Protector. 

But all of these burdens I believe will weaken with time because I still believe in all of the other things I am carrying. All of my Virtues, like Loving, Creative, Thoughtful, and Self-Aware. Like Optimist, Youthful, Empowering, and Passionate. 

Someone, someday, may find me and love me at whatever state of self-appearance I am in. I will once again devote myself to the care and well-being of this person, and he (I anticipate, but am not sure so let it remain a placeholder pronoun) will give himself to my care and well-being. Something will be different, however, and that is that I will not give my entire being to others; I will preserve some part of myself that is merely, truly, and loyally for myself.

That is what will be different the next time. Until then, I must learn to do all of these things. I must learn to love myself.