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i thought I did it, made it through. to my horror, i will only ever be trying to make it through. it gets better, i know, but when. when will it permanently be not even better but ok. at least a bit ok when will my head not be full of mold and love lost and friends leaving and losing family too early. when will i learn healthy coping mechanisms, when will i be able to attend dbt or therapy sessions without shutting down and being triggered. when will things work out when will i see blue skies when will i not be doing something wrong, something horrible to someone i love and want in my life. when will i be ok with existence. when will i accept that life goes on and that’s ok. it’s ok it really is. when will my stomach not fill with bile that i can never chuck up for the life of me. when will i be satisfied with my figure, the pouch on my stomach- knowing im too unwell to ever carry life. when will i hear my mum’s soothing voice that i yearn for. what can i do to just be. just be. I didn’t ask for this life, I want to keep going and feel the sun on my skin, sense my mum in the wind; I don’t want to be in an active suicidal and schizophrenic episode each year like clockwork, only worse every damn time. I want to LIVE I don’t want to die but I can’t see a future, without the bugs continuing to fester behind my eyes and holes in my brain from things I can’t remember, skills I never learnt to cope and treat others right, not over do it with my love and care.