Maybe someday I’ll tell you about all of my pain. Maybe someday I’ll tell you that the real reason as to why I don’t sleep very much at night is because I’m just that scared of what might happen to you while I sleep. I want to protect you so much, but you’re not even here. The real reason why I cut is to know that everything isn’t an illusion. When will I tell you that? When will I tell you all the things that trouble me? When will I stop using depression as an excuse? Why can’t I pick myself up anymore? You tell me I’m strong, but underneath me is not solid ground. It’s water, and I don’t know how to swim anymore. When will I tell you how bad my schizophrenia really is? About the inner voice inside of me that I converse with before making a decision? About my panic attacks? About all of the other nameless things that happen to me because of it? When will I be able to admit that one sickness has probably caused the other? When will I bet able to tell you about all of the other countless things? The answer is never, unless I become dirty sober in two minutes.