If I had everything would I still want to be alive

"Somewhere she is on the streets

Trying to make things better

Praying to God and breathing deep

Gotta break this long obsession

The look on her face, a waste of time

She won't let go, gonna roll the dice

Losing her grace, starts to cry

I feel her pain when I look in her"

- Buckcherry

I started with the intention of only telling a story about my illness. I've now come to realize that one simply can not just write one story. You have to incorporate other points, or instances, in your life to show how you may have come to a certain conclusion; why you have the viewpoint you do when confronted with a topic. I can't just tell you I'm sick and go from there. Past experiences make me reflect on situations in different ways. I base my conclusions on things that happened before and it's going to change how I perceive things after. 

I've become a completely different person in the last few years. I would like to be able to tell you that I have grown, matured, but that would just be trying to flatter myself. What I have truly become is a person who is paranoid, obsessed, jealous, and depressed. I managed to lose the carefree personality that I once held. This all came from wanting more than life has to offer. I have too many questions that will forever go unanswered and as a result I have become obsessed. My mind is on a constant repeat. It never slows down and it never stops for anything. This is what drives me, the need to know all, the need for "why". If I could slow it down then maybe I wouldn't have such difficulty in keeping people close to me. Instead, I push them away with paranoia. 

Being sick only escalated my quirks. I was given an infinite amount of time to sit and think about everything and anything. I had more time to imagine and visualize outcomes and look deeper into my questions. I am looking to writing as a way to release this pent up obsession. I hope it will keep my mind busy enough that I will allow the little things, so minuscule, to slip through the cracks, in turn, making me function slightly better. If there even is such a thing as functioning properly. Who decides what is proper anyways? <-- See, it's a never ending cycle. I'm never satisfied. It can never, and will never, be simple for me. Complicating is a way of life. Things that should not have even been given a second glance are dissected on the table until absolutely nothing can be further extracted, until I feel I am satisfied with the result. Will I ever be truly satisfied though, or should I learn to settle. . .