What more do I have to say?

What more can I tell the whole world that so few care to know or explore? You know most of my darkest secrets. And suddenly they don’t hurt so much. Maybe I’m mentally ill, but I’m not ashamed of who I am. I wish my fellow friends and peers who weren’t so impaired could at least be comfortable with who they are. Granted, there are times I hate who I am and how I have so much to contend with just to get through a day of little value, but I’m proud of how I handle most days and certainly how I treat people. And most of all, I’m proud of who I am, a good person.

So what more can I deliver to my so few readers? I struggle with the thought. As a sort of mental health blog I should be showing you how things get better so you can be inspired right? I had a friend recently tell me I was her inspiration in this regard. Then I tried to commit suicide. Try eating that just dessert.

I wish my thoughts were beautiful all the time. These analytical pieces, these bits of math and engineering, this… poetry that cascades through me when times are rough or good. This poetry never makes it to a page to be written or articulated. It stays with me. I like that though. I like that I see my friends and I can think of them as the ember or the moon, or some great constellation, representing a god no longer thought of. I like that these words give me comfort, though sometimes I don’t understand their origin. It’s a lot like the “bad” thoughts I have, but these ones are beautiful.

My closest friends eventually materialize as something else when these thoughts come, and they fade as quickly as they come, despite my memory being careful to note rational and trivial things, these words feel ethereal, in a way that I can never hold on to them for more than a few minutes. And when I do, I’m left with these interesting and sometimes beautiful remnants.

I must confess, I had a lot more of those thoughts when I was pining for that girl I’ve mentioned a few times. And the turbulent thoughts were just as increased. But I had these pretty pieces and strings of words that felt like God was talking to me. When I wanted to scream from the internal frustration and agony, those words consoled me. They weren’t always in relation to her, rarely in fact did they have anything at all to do with her. Sometimes it was just something she said or thought that led me a few leaps down of thoughts and I was being soothed.

It never really made me happy on its own, it still doesn’t, but it makes me see or think about things a new way that I usually find comforting, if only for the moment. It made me feel like I could some day be happy…

Shit kinda hit the fan recently and I’m still recovering, not knowing where I’m going or where I ought to go. Some decisions still weigh heavily and need to be made. But even now I have those warm thoughts. I imagine a heavy set gentleman with an eccentric and fully beard laughing boisterously as he presents me these comforting thoughts as though they were as necessary as a warm bed.

I feel good at the moment. Maybe not content. Maybe not free of frustration. Certainly I have no goals, immediate or distant. But I have my imagination. And a world of pictures and words in there, even if I can never manifest them. It feels powerful. But, I feel good, and I’m ok with where I’m at in this moment. Anyone with bipolar knows how important that can be.

I’m ok. I’m ok, and for some reason, thinking about that at this very moment. About me, the person I’m not ashamed of and completely proud to be. My friends and girlfriend who I care about so deeply. It just feels, ok, and I really like that. Let’s keep this up, I have nothing else to hide and I didn’t scare off those ones I care about so much after all, that makes it worth it.


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