I like to pretend I’m put together. It used to be so that no one could see how messed up I am. When that all fell apart I had a few short blissful months when I didn’t have to pretend. My life really had fallen apart. I was the epitome of all those psych diagnostic labels posted all over my chart. Today I pretend again. Not all the time. Not to everyone. But I do pretend, because I’m still afraid. I’m afraid that when push comes to shove, no one will be there to catch me, or to help me pick up the pieces. I’m only strong so long as I keep fighting to stay in one piece. And sometimes it hurts, the agony of the constant fight and work gets overwhelming. Once in a while it all rushes over me like a wave of self-pity and remorse. And I just want to fall into a million pieces and scatter…and then I remember, it would make very little difference to very few people. So I fight. I fight so that one day I’ll have made in impact in people’s lives. I take solace in the fact that when that one day comes, when all the new connections have outnumbered the burnt ashes of the bridges in the past, I will be able to breathe, and cry, and someone will be there.