When an episode is bad, there is an urge to curl into a fetal position. I can almost feel my right of mind leaving me. I can see it in silver threads slowly tracing out of my body, through my skin, dissipating to the darkness that surrounds me. I can't hear anything else except the loud wishing for something sharp to stab me where my nerves tingle, where it aches: my arms, my head, my nape, my chest, my back, my entirety. Chop my body and toss it into a blender for all I care.
I fall into a restless sleep, where I am in constant fear of running into a nightmare: faces of people who hurt me, faces of people they love more than me. I am just a child, I think, why am I not important to you?
As it was, as it has always been, I remember that I learned to make my own formula since I was three because my mother once took too long to respond to my hunger. I scald my hand then. My mother was so alarmed and chided me almost to a beating: you have to learn to wait! She repeatedly mumbled fearing the wound would scar. It didn't. Something else hurt.
I grew up giving up on stars and medals because there was never a parent at my recognition rites. There were always more important meetings. My cousin would show up to pin the ribbons I never strived for and would take me to a burger joint afterwards. Food took sadness away. The momentary glory of pickles, mayonnaisse, soft buns, and meat took the sadness away (but why was I never important enough?).
The episode has passed, by now. Like bad sex, ending. The logic has returned to my body. Repeatedly, my better self is able to chide my other self: you are worthy. My courage is bubbling. The fluoxetine so hard at work, it's nauseating.
I can wear my coats of armor now. My masks can adhere to my broken entirety. I am worthy.