Hey you, fucker whose spit I have all over my arms after that bout of very one-sided shouting. You have your secrets, I have mine. I respect you enough not to pry into your business, despite it stinging like a fucking knife every time I notice the fucking stink of burnt cigarettes all over your fingers and shirt. I know you meant what you said because that's really what you believe has been going on. I'm telling you you're wrong, and simultaneously fucking begging that you take those words back before you inflict any further damage on this fucked up excuse for a family. You ruin me like no other.

Stress is what keeps me going the way I have. I don't know what to make of this but it certainly is my reality. Stress of not doing well; of not being able to cope; of losing my social life again; of not having a healthy mind... The list goes on. I worry too much, even about the things way beyond my control. Yet the stress, worry, and that kind of pain have been pushing me on since last year, and I feel myself losing it now of all times... No. I can't do this to myself, not after everything I've been through. I'll do whatever it takes to get back on that road. I'll punish myself if I have to.

There you go again.