Nothing is okay. my life is falling apart. i am depressed. suicidal. anorexic. bipolar. i have anxiety. i go home every day crying. wake up every day asking why. why am i still here. and i don’t dare tell anyone because i apparently have everything. everything but happiness. all i can imagine is my funeral and the shock it would be to everyone. i don’t think it’s healthy to fantasize about your death.. but then again, the worst sicknesses are the ones that make you believe you are well. i want to ask for help, but i don’t want help. being sick is like being home.