i’m (16f) too comfortable in my mental illness. not comfortable in the sense that i’m happy or content — comfortable in the sense that it’s all i know, so it’s safe to me. familiar. i’m in so deep that it feels easier to just sink.

but i think there was a time where i was happy. and by happy, i don’t mean the momentary euphoria of little things, of feeling achievement; that always goes away.

i mean genuine, true, happiness. a desire to live. hope for the future. i forgot how that feels; to have hope.

i know that being in a good place mentally doesn’t constitute to being happy all the time. of course you can’t be happy all the time. it’s impossible. you have to feel the negatives to embrace the positives. and i don’t deny that.

but being “happy” often also means to have an understanding of why you’re alive. why you don’t want to die. 

and i wish i had that. i wish i didn’t think of dying everyday. i wish i didn’t hope every night that when i go to sleep, i’ll miraculously not wake up. i wish that most of my thoughts weren’t about self punishment. self hatred. degradation.

but it’s what i’m familiar with. it’s become my identity at this point. i don’t know who i am without my disorders. it feels almost safe to stay the way i am rather than to put in the effort to heal.

it’s so tiring. i’m tired.