There's a relief in feeling the storm approach. When the silence finally gives way to the familiar noise of my thoughts overlapping each other, I can relax once more. And it's strange to admit, but I feel comfort in my own mental illness. I feel comfort in letting myself cry when nobody is around to listen; in bottling up my emotions until I break down. It's easier to do that than to open up; It's easier to sink into the pain, letting it drag me under in waves. How do I heal when I don't know what's broken? Bandaids are meant to stop the bleeding, but what keeps my soul from spilling out of the cracks? I am a glass child, and therefore I am doomed to shatter. Maybe the thunder isn't so bad.