sick

This is not me.

I'm the intelligent, nice, charming man you all know and love. The man who cares about [some] other people. The man who is strong and confident and independent. The man who is a good friend. A good partner.

This...thing...is the disease. This thing that acts bizarrely, that writes depressed blogs. This thing that seeks constant reassurance to counteract pathological, obsessive doubt, and rants and raves and says hurtful things when reassurance is withheld. This thing that has so little control over its actions.

The man I am hates this thing. The man I am is so incredibly frustrated at the disease's control over his actions. The man hates that the disease ruins every relationship with it's horrible and frightening behavior. The man knows he isn't perfect, but knows he isn't this.

Please don't give up on me yet.