Thank you everyone for the lovely things you said, and thank you to the anonymous bloggers who said what I couldn't. It's undeniably true - I love my mental disease far more than I love my body, my family, my friends, the people I fuck. I live in a place, distant from reality, where I can nurture my delusions. And they're beautiful too - if you pretend hard enough, eventually reality disappears and nothing hurts quite as much as it did before. I think I constructed some malleable notion of love in order to create the illusion that I could still come back. That some irrevocable connection would rescue me. Paradoxically, I know I'm the only person that can rescue me. I'm not lost, I'm hiding.
it's so easy to disguise the ugly truth when you hide in words, meaningless, pointless, futile, broken, empty, hollow words.