It's still a bit uneasy, but we're doing alright. We always find our way back to each other.

See, we're both mentally ill. We both have bipolar, ptsd and adhd. I'm autistic and he -might- be too, he's as socially weird as I am. But less so, so it's a hard call, and unlike me, he's undiagnosed. However, the ptsd and bipolar can cause a lot of stress and traumatic events in our relationship. It's why we struggle with money- -as we both can only handle part time, min wage jobs. It's why I try so hard to get commissions. So I'm sorry for flooding your feeds pooling for them when I do. I'm -ok- without them, but they do help me out a ton, and I'm ever so grateful for every single one that's thrown my way.

I digress.

The mental illnesses are our only struggle, but we have a loving bond that surpasses the struggle. And sometimes, even though we know we mean well, it hurts. And this time, it's my fault. I'm covered in fresh cuts now, and I'm worried about how to cover them at work- -rather, keeping them covered. See, I have a wrist brace for that arm, and it covers them nicely, but I have to remove it when I need to wash my hands or change gloves at work, so there's small stints of time where it's exposed. So I have to be careful until they heal. They're superficial, the blade I used was dull as hell, plus I was so out of it I wasn't really capable of gaging how deep to cut. I was just wildly swinging. But I'm done with suicide. If I died, Flickie would be homeless. He needs my income and the rare commissions I get. He also needs me... to be here for him. Just like I need him.

So this... this is for us. This is our healing picture. We live.