There is a point.

Memories haunt me. My mental illness is my reason for running towards the future. My mental illness is my reason for fearing what I run to. I once thought the world was watching me. What if I loose my mind again? What if I end up in the psychiatric ward again, for the eighth fucking time? I take my pills every night. But they hurt me! They help me. But they hurt me... What if they stop working? What if I get high again, but don't come down? Or keep falling? How will I get up? How will I stand? I am sick, always will be. I never gave up, but what if I do one day? What if I betray those who love me? What if I lay cutting through wrists, taking all my meds . . . Hanging? Bleeding? Forever not being? Suicide is on my mind all the fucking time. Even when I am happy, it chases me through halls with bare walls. When I am sad I think of my friends and family. I think of how much they'll miss me. I think of our memories. I think of their anger. Their loosing the ability to forgive me. I think of love. I think of the importance of it. I close my eyes. I see my dog. And after saying allowed, "Put a gun in my mouth." I say to my dog, the one I see with m