They say it gets better. And for some it does. But it's been so many years. And I have watched from the trapped recesses of my mind. And sometimes there is laughter and something approaching happiness. But it is brief. And always behind the brief flickers of almost content lies the grasping thing that is my broken mind. Bad genetics. Bad luck. Trauma and unstable beginnings. These things add up to a person that I am almost proud to be, but also know is incapable of continuing to survive in a world whose edges are too sharp and it's inhabitants too cruel. But I am my worst torturer, not a purpose, but because I cannot protect myself from the jagged places where I have been ill-made or have been broken. Sedated to the gills I remain on edge. It's like the story of the original runner at Marathon-- one can only keep up such a fast and desperate pace for so long before collapse and death from sheer exhaustion. I am exhausted. I cannot keep up this pace. Fear and despair have had me at such a rate for so long, eventually, soon I think, I will lose my last bit of remaining endurance and collapse never to rise again. I am tired and I am only alive because I know my dying would cause pain to my mother, and so I keep fighting myself every day, but I'm pretty sure the part of me that cares that I would be causing others pain in making my own choice is losing, and the part that says my life is mine to do with, even to dispose of, if I wish is crying my name and it's own right louder and louder.