I don’t ever learn.
Let’s just say that last weekend I got into some trouble. Nothing legal or anything, thank God. Just personal trouble.
I realize my bipolar is out of control, that it always has been, and that using alcohol in excess with bipolar is a really bad idea.
I am not invincible. I need to get that through my thick head.
Looking back, I’m lucky I’m still alive and without a criminal record.
I’ve made out pretty well in life for all the stupid things I’ve done and all the evil things I’ve said.
It’s time to cut my losses where evident. It’s time to Let It Be where evident.
I am a bit ashamed of myself. My behavior is burned in my mind.
I am rather concerned about my lack of emotional control at 26 years old. I wonder if I’ll ever get it together, if I can stay even and rational for any sustained period of time.
Bipolar disorder continues to scare me out the more I get to know it.
It likes to trick me, come out of nowhere, hide in dark corners.
During the day, I am at work, doing my thing, socializing, experiencing success.
Sometimes, at night, I get paranoid and delusional.
Then the next day I’m fine again. And I become desensitized to these things, like old, known spirits, a mystical truth that I’ll never escape.
I just get used to it — madness sandwiched between brilliance.
I don’t want people to know how I act when I’m angry or upset, but I’ve already shown it to most of the people I’d prefer to keep it from. My bad. Not kidding.
I’ve said things I shouldn’t have. I’ve done things in life that are completely out of character.
Is that really true, though? Am I really who I think I am? Who I tell myself I am? Am I justifying my rotten behavior? Am I a person who deserves endless forgiveness, or someone who will only get so many passes in life? I think it’s leaning more towards the latter as I move further and further away from childhood.
Some people are sick of me. Some are wary of me. Some are confused. And I wonder how I always get people to dislike me in the end.
When I was in high school, I wondered why I wasn’t like the girls who smiled all the time, the girls everyone liked and wanted to be around. Those loose-shouldered bitches who were invited to every party, had no problem socializing with adults and peers, and had a solid-looking family. An older, hotter sister.
You know what I realized? I’m not one of those girls and I never will be. I’m the black widow type, the cute, petite girl with the fiery red hair, Pamela Courson with the bedroom doe eyes.
I am intelligent, so intelligent that I will find a way to fuck you over if you make me.
It’s all about me. It was never about anyone else. Those girls in high school? They seriously wanted to get to know people. They liked being around their classmates.
As much as I can pretend to fit in, I never wanted that for myself. I wanted an empty room and an iPod and a computer. And a pad and a pen.
A boyfriend to keep me busy and get me high at night. No interest in women or chatting.
I thought I envied those girls and their parties. But the truth is, I never wanted to be at those parties anyway.
And that is how I’ve let others control me, bring me down, scare me and intimidate me until opinions bombarded me and I lost my sense of self. Things don’t feel right, so sometimes I numb the feeling.
But the feelings come up again.
It’s upsetting. And I start to wonder if I shouldn’t be hated. Maybe I’m not a good person. It’s a lonely and damning query.