Black Butterfly, her end will come, only when mine does

Writings from my journal during my last hospitalization in August '09

The black butterfly consumes me, controls me...she knows me.
She cannot  be killed with chemicals...for years we have tried yet she lives on, stronger this year, than the years before.
She loathes my happiness, despises any self control.
should  she discover a hint of either one, she gobbles them up and becomes more volatile by spitting them back out upon the world as anger, pain, sadness, hopelessness, hate, fear and paranoia.
Defeated, I recoil into myself, begging for someone to destroy her.
She is no ordinary, delicate, colorful butterfly.
Not like the beautiful ones living within children, tickling their fat,
little tummies, causing them to giggle with delight.
My butterfly  is black, wrought iron with razor sharp wings.
She cannot...will not be broken...
until...
I finally am.