Any shred of Hope Within Me, any semblance of a Chance... gone.

I keep finding that I can't articulate what is wrong inside and I find that scary. Usually I can attribute my inner pain, my emotional torment, to an event or diagnosis or even a difficult day, but none of these things are coming to mind to explain away my current state. I don't like it. I feel blind. And I can't be blind because I must be able to see.

Take away my sight and I have nothing. No defences, no protection. Nothing. I'm just vulnerable.

I've been taking roaccutane for exactly one week now. One day three my skin started drying out noticeably and its continued to worsen a little bit each day. Right now my face even hurts a little bit. I'm not happy. It's hideous. I'm taking self conscious to the next level and I'm probably going to have another little pity party while I'm at it. 

I guess that really confronting thing about roaccutane thus far is how powerful it really is. I read so much about it, I thought I was prepared. But I was wrong. Nothing could have prepared me for its strength, and I'm only one week in. Now I'm not going to lie about this, I am terrified. What else is it doing to me as a type this? I acknowledge that this paranoia is unhelpful and should be avoided. But I can't help but dwell on it. My scalp is so, so sore. It itches and it hurts to brush my hair. It's like a constant sun burn. One that's going to hang around for the next six months.

But it will all be worth it. It has to be.

I just. I'm scared. More so now then I was before. This was doable before, but now, I'm not so sure. I will stick this out, I will be rid of acne, but at what cost? The possible cost of this course is killing me inside. I don't know what it will cost me and I don't think I can stand to lose anything else. No more dysfunctional organs and body parts, no more loss of friends. Not when I can count those who I want, really want, to remain close to on one hand. 

But then, that's never really been my choice has it. People enjoy taking that one from me. Withdrawing and leaving me to rot. I sometimes wonder if they think about me, or if they've forgotten. Do they keep the memories? I do. They've changed, my memories have not. I remember, even if they've erased me. I'm still haunted by all the probable things I've done wrong. The people I've lost, and all because I'm too high maintenance and no fun to be around for too long. 

It's all my fault really. I can't control my brain. It thinks what it wants. It demands that I share my mind with depression and I do - quite submissively sometimes. And what is my consequence? Well, I lose things. 

And I can't anymore. 

So who do I talk to then. Who can I trust. I don't know that I can trust anyone. Promises are made to be broken, friends bonded to be lost. It honestly seems to me that every decision/action/step in life is a matter of weighing up the costs, even if you don't realise it at the time.

In closing I will quote Effie Trinket: "may the odds be ever in your favour." Take from that what you will.

- Sky