Last night, I was just asking for it. I know that. I have to sit and wonder here, when exactly I turned into such a heinous bitch and a half. Yeah, so I’m hurting right now. But who isn’t? I still want to know why my brain, my body, make me act like this.

Sometimes I really don’t recognize myself.

And that scares me. It really, really does.

The most recent diagnosis is bipolar disorder. I guess it really shouldn’t surprise me. The mood swings, the hyperactivity, irritability, followed by the insane amount of depression. There’s a term for it, but I’m not sure what. I’ve always rejected being called bipolar, manic depressive, whatever. It doesn’t always make sense, because I rarely feel on top of the world, rarely feel superior. Maybe that’s why I was diagnosed incorrectly. Or maybe they’re wrong again.

I’ve been such a basket case lately, and my eating disorder is flaring up. I know that, I really know what’s going on. I could lie, say I’m powerless to stop it. I could say that I want to get better but I just can’t.

I’d be lying, and I know that. I’ve always hated liars, and look at me now. Hypocrite.

So we fought last night, because I’d consumed so little, and I didn’t care. I don’t care. I try to tell myself that if I want to get “better” and start eating “normally” again, I could. Again, I’d be lying, and I despise liars. I don’t want to eat more. I don’t want to eat well. I just want to be left alone...or maybe I don’t. I don’t know what I want, but hey, that’s the story of my life.

I was the one at fault, last night. I was the one who let the anger boil up, consume me. She didn’t, though I could see it in her eyes. She’s frustrated because I won’t help myself, and she can’t do a damned thing to help me. I’m the only one who can stop this, and I’m a spoiled child who wants to get her way. I guess the reason I’m trying so hard to fade away, to disappear, is because I want attention so badly. I’m so fucking needy. I need someone to hold me, I need someone to fight me when I say I want to be left alone, when I lie to get the attention I so desperately desire. She gives it and gives it now. After the fight last week, she’s stopped pretending nothing is wrong, stopped letting herself be caught up in her own problems. But I’m stuck here, in this vicious cycle.

She tried to hold me, and I fought her.

She tried to comfort me, and I ignored it.

I got so used to holding her, to comforting her, that I just...can’t let myself be taken care of. Because back then... That’s all it was. And she never fought that.

I wish I could describe a single fight. Just one, and give every detail so that it would be possible to make a judgment as to whose fault it was. But all she can remember are my words, so hateful, and all I can remember is the pain. Neither of us wants to share, too fearful of opening the floodgates and hurting the other with reminders of what was done.

I can only try.

It gets tense. Both of us are on edge, constantly snapping at each other, defensive, afraid that the littlest thing will set the other one off. And it does. The biting remarks lead to explosive arguments, the screaming turns to hitting, the hitting turns to scratching, biting, hurting, which leads to tearful apologies that neither of us really mean.

I want to hurt her.

And she wants to hurt me.

We’re so caught up in our own demons that we choose not to see what’s going on right in front of us, within us even. But then, I’ve always been blind to my own faults, however numerous they might be, however noticeable to everyone else.

In some sick way, I love this. I love taunting, and pushing, and prodding, and poking like I’m so good at doing, then having her hit me. I absolutely love it, adore it, crave it. I know it’s sick, but I want it. I want an excuse to pull away. I want an excuse to slip back into familiar ways. She wants an escape. I’m the whipping girl, whatever you’d call it now, who’s easy to beat up on. I’m smaller and less inclined toward physical abuse, I piss her off, and she takes her pain out on me.

I hate to point this out, especially because that means I have to admit it to myself, but I threw the first blows-emotionally, verbally, and physically. I slapped her first, because she pissed me off. And I started it. And now it has to be finished.