Often I feel as though there are two of me, not two cognitive beings but two very unfamiliar voices without identities, which without doubt has me questioning who I might actually be. Down past the painted masks, the guilt, the fears, the bruises, the scars, the uncontrollable elation, the incessant thoughts, the depths of depression, the anxiety, the paranoia, the whispers, the darkness, the helplessness, the euphoria, the sporadic bursts of emotion, and the invincibility. Could there possibly be someone there? Untouched, untainted by these things I assumed to be my whole. “Who is she, what is she like, is her memory that of mine? I wonder. Admitting I am a mess proves to be fairly impossible, but so much as the thought of medication is beyond terrifying. Somehow I wake up day after day believing I can start new, all the while knowing there in my mind, is a battlefield, and some days I do not feel at all. Am I not worthy of such a life, one where I shall choose the battles I face and how I conquer them. Am I bound to feel undeserving for each moment I live and each embrace I accept. Am I flawed more or no less than those who surround me. Am I to set in motion each soul that carries me. Am I to allow myself forgiveness for the wicked my mind has endured.