I have written this entry not less than four times. Notice none of the other drafts made it up? I suck. My internal editor sucks.

What am I so afraid of? I'll tell you (did you doubt I would? Come on, now, really?). I'm duking it out upstairs these days. Big war going on in my head. One side of me, the side I call Pariah, insists that the only way to get this crap out of my head is to write it flat, plain, frank, and kablooey. Fuck em if they don't understand. The other part of me (not that there are only two parts, but these two are the major players in this particular battle) is skittish and tears big chunks out of my manuscript and journal entries. Nobody will be your friend if you say that, gage.

Black or white. All or nothing. Spewing or catatonic. In a choice between two evils, is evil too harsh a term?

And, guess what I've found out? Backstory, first, though, and then I'll tell you. In the last several years, I've made a great deal of progress in confronting and coping with what happened to me. But, I've done it alone. Now, I'm not looking for a badge or brownie button when I say that. It's just...I'm having a hard time these days. I've been stuck. I didn't have a name for what it is that I've become, and without that name, I've had no idea how to continue. No longer. The name of the beast is Borderline Personality.

Yes, that's self-diagnosed. No, I do not wish to debate it.

You know what really sucks? My sick little dream didn't come true: Having the name hasn't helped me figure out my next manoeuver. Not one bit. Dammit.

Ubiety was talking about whiners and attention-getting behaviours a few days back. His bent read something along the lines of "you should just get over it." And, I suppose I misdirected a lot of anger at him for that entry; it came at a rather difficult time for me. I maintained, though. Didn't say one word to him. And now that I'm calm, I would like to say this, and only this: Some people are sicker than you've afforded them, Ubiety.

Hi, that's me! I'm froot loops and orange juice in a bowl at 3am. I really need help. I'm losing it. I'm sorry if that sounds weak, or like I want someone else to do it for me. Not as I intend. It's just, I have done it for my own self, and I can't anymore. I'm doing more harm than good at this point.

What's the problem, gage, you schmuck? Move your skinny butt to a therapist, pronto. If I put it on the insurance, Someone will see the statement. If I pay cash, Someone will see the ATM activity. If I write a cheque, Someone will see it canceled.

I can just picture it... Me on the freeway ramp, holding a sign that reads: Will work for therapy.