I joked I would write your biography: day in the life of someone with borderline personality disorder. in fact, I'm freaked that you are probably hospitalized again or worse, dead. I know you try to explain your disorder to me, things you don't even fully understand. why you dissociate, why you have murderous rage, episodes after episodes. most of all, why people refuse to help you. wasn't that our last conversation?

I miss you. I was thinking about last year how you read the essay I wrote for teacher's college. you knew I'd get in, you said it had a personal touch, that it was meant to be. having more fate (faith) in me than I do myself. just like you knew I was in denial for many years, afraid to seek help. you know how it feels for a parent to be disappointed that their child battles any mental disorder. labels stick like temporary tattoos. isn't suicide a permanent solution to a temporary problem? then when will it wash off?