Writing on Track

It's been couple of good days recently. I'm warily glad.
Sometimes I still forget my assignment tasks and that sorta scares me a bit because I remember having been nearly on point with my works but occasionally, my groupmates remind me and that scrapes the uneasiness a bit from my chest.

I used to be able to discern my work from personal really well up until this point and looking at how it's suddenly affecting each other makes me feel incompetent.

What I said during the last ice-breaking session in FE class is no more true than the fact that I love reading. I am good with separating my work and personal lives. 
It's just that the notion applies only to outside people from myself.

Because obviously I am the greatest danger to my own person.
If I'm smart, I'd do something about that and yeah, I'm learning and trying, but things don't always move like we want them to. It's like trying to tell people who has anxiety to stop feeling anxious or people who has depression to stop feeling sad.
It's not gonna happen overnight.

I'm good with working with people as long as I keep it professional. I only dislike them when it comes to my personal preference but if I needed to work with them, then by all means, whatever strategy to cooperate is aligned in order to get the work done.
Naturally, I would expect and appreciate the same sentiment.

I can come off as friendly and polite in a workspace but please don't try to go beyond that. The work must be kept untainted and professional at all cost.

Yet when it comes to myself and only my own, it's not as easy. Lack of sleep will lower my inhibition to string thoughts together and any other set of harmful actions upon my person by myself will affect my capabilities towards my work in the long run. 
The proof is evident right this moment, isn't it?

If I take this correctly, it might be the push I needed after all. For work, I could deal with planning a balanced meal daily. For work, I could grit restraint to keep my hands off the pocket-knives. For work, I could cry dry tears and heave choked gasps to force sleep in a panic attack. If only for work, I could deal with taking better care of myself.
Maybe after that, other things will come naturally.

Hopefully.
That could be pushing my luck, though.
Who knows?

I'm writing in my journal as often as I can manage, to get my bearings together. Even if it was silly and uncoordinated, it felt as 'me' as possible and I wouldn't have it any other way. Because it helps. It's always had because you can tell things get tighter and tighter until it blows up when I have not written anything for a time.
Sometimes it even takes a blow up for me to write again.

I worried about showing my writings sometimes, because people can only read in their own voice and what I write may not coincide with what I was trying to convey.
I could write "I hate you so much" in an underlying and fond tone but would people read it in the way they could hear it in their heads? 

Getting people to understand is difficult thus why I never bothered.
If they wanted, they're free to try and if I believed their effort, I'm free to cooperate.
Then again, meddling with people is messy and more often than not, isn't worth the trouble.

If they accepted, it was enough.