Life, Love, Pursuit Of Happiness

You know what the worst part of being in love as a mentally ill person? It’s that, for a second, an hour, however long you were together, that other person made you feel like you were worth something. Like you were valued, for the first time in years, or a lifetime. Until that person decided you weren’t. That your damage was incompatible with theirs, that your scars were too much.

And your logical mind says that nobody else can define your value, your worth but you. But oh god, for those few minutes, hours, days, months or years, there was something that came alive in you because you were finally good enough for somebody.

And then that somebody left. And they took everything that came alive with them. And you watched a small hole in yourself grow, and grow into something huge, with gnarled edges . Something scary, that you feel like you can’t escape.

But every day, you climb out of bed and the hole closes a little. Not a lot, but some. And maybe days, weeks, months or years later, what you’re left with is a scar. A reminder that no matter how hard you love, someone can leave you. That the spark you felt, or feel, fades for someone else.