You can call me little miss relapse

I wasn’t bad for a while. I got better, I had friends. I pulled myself out of that hole of built up anger and sorrow. I was happy. I’d laugh for no reason, I’d be wild, free. I was me again. When summer ended my sadness ended. It was good. Life was fine. Funny isn’t it, how somethings can grow so gradually, unnoticeable, then suddenly hit you like an oncoming train? Or how somethings are so wonderful that when the slightest thing goes wrong, that wonderful feeling is just leaves? It never settles down permanently, just as sadness never leaves. Maybe I’m not depressed. Maybe I’m bipolar. I can’t feel sometimes. I can’t think. Sometimes I’m high on happiness till it comes crashing down. Thoughts enter my minds and worldly sensations only last a second. I never understood the appeal of cutting. I tried it once, but it was nothing, it did nothing. Sometimes I bang my head against a wall or two and then I know why they do it. Pain, that dull throbbing of essence pulses through your body, the most addictive drug. I want to feel. I want to know I exist. I want to know that someday those smiles will no longer be fake, and that it will get better. It will, if I’m living. Pain is a reminder. I just want to remember.