She’s sitting beside me. We sit in classrooms that are teaching us life skills normal people developed when they were children and growing up. She’s a beautiful, young, BPD, in the throws of having to start into adulthood while battling this illness…
I ask the teacher a clarifying question that makes all the other students, who have their own mental illnesses, look at me with a bit of a tilted subdued “wtf!?!” look.
“See – it’s that kind of fucked up stuff that I ask about that makes other people look at me weird… Even the crazy people look at me like I’m crazy” I tell her.
“That’s why I’m quiet.” she says back. “But you are far from crazy. If anything, everything you say to me is insightful. *smiley*”.
“That’s because you’re the same level of crazy as me silly!” I tell her and chuckle to myself. She laughs and nods and we continue on with the class.