Does my mental illness make you laugh? Good.

Enough of a reason to stick around, I think

It is now 4.04 am and I am finally in bed. This is shameful. I really need to get my shit together. No self-help book has ever told me that going to bed with the sun and rising with the moon is the one habit all successful people have in common. 

Anyway, I say “in bed” when I really mean falling out of it. My boyfriend and fat cat are taking up far more than their share, and since I don’t have the heart to wake them, I’m not going to be able to fall asleep anytime soon. So I have time to ruminate over why I should keep writing this blog. 

And I think I may have come up with a half-decent reason: I talk to myself. 

I know I’ve succeed in baffling you, dear (non-existent) reader, but I’m going somewhere with this, I promise. 

When I’m at my worst, which is frequently in the shower where I can be found ugly crying and begging my boyfriend to bring me a Xanax, I talk to myself to calm myself down. This is the only thing I can trust to help me during a particularly nasty panic attack (apart from the aforementioned Xanax, of course). 

However, unlike the Xanax (which I swallow furtively and with the appropriate amount of shame), talking to myself frequently earns me strange looks in public and even stranger looks at home, where my boyfriend can actually hear what I’m saying. So I’ve decided to blog to myself instead. 

It’ll serve the same purpose, while also helping me look more sane to people. That’s the hope, anyway. 

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