Life is a constant battle with myself. A constant disagreement with my brain. A constant physical struggle with, and also sometimes against, my limbs. 
My brain wants me to believe I'm ugly, garbage, unlovable, unsatisfactory, boring, disgusting, not worthy, not enough. It wants me to believe that people are untrustworthy, that they can't help but to fool me, to *make a fool* of me.
My body wants to keep me in bed, stop me from making it to appointments, stop me from enjoying the outdoors. My body wants to take me on spontaneous, expensive adventures.  Walk out of work. Cut it. Fill it with bad substances. As if I can't stop them, my fingers type out texts of pathetic questions and gross ramblings of embarrassing glimpses into my psyche. I have to fight my legs &amp; my chest to not gang up on me and force me to get in the car and leave this province. 
 I'm inherently flawed, irrevocably damaged. Living is a constant struggle. Somehow, I've been able to keep living thus far...