there are not many times when I feel good enough or perhaps powerful enough to just speak up about how I feel right now. most of the time it’s not the kindest of thoughts I have about myself. they are dark and condemning. they desire the end. yet I run into an obstacle when trying to speak about how I feel. the perception of feeling weak and useless. so instead of speaking out I rage on the inside or quite often on the outside. be it in the car punching a roof. in a room somewhere punching walls and not that rarely – smashing furniture. these acts rarely have the calming effect. instead I feel closer to insanity as I just laugh out all deranged or speak to self in the most demeaning way. sometimes I write and it feels good. as long as I don’t read back what I wrote. not that I am unjustly critical but reading it immediately just spirals me into a world of self hate and self pity.

see? this is the mindset I am talking about. expressing self and already soiling it. branding self weak. when in fact when I see others speaking out about their mental battles – I am in awe of them. inspired. when i try to do the same – I feel unworthy and utterly pathetic. am I being patronizing with others? or am I just so severely hating self? why do I seem to accept others and their quest for being better as sincere while completely rejecting every attempt I make to do the same (sure, I am nowhere as eloquent and beautifully sincere as the others are…)?

reality is that my sentiments regarding self completely rely on whether I had one or five or no espressos. meaning, if I am ‘drugged up.’ before I spiral into something completely unrelated I want to make my point: I have been on and off in a state of denial of my bipolar disorder for years now. though I do acknowledge it occasionally, I am mostly deflecting it, somehow hoping one day I will wake up and it will be all gone. that in itself is a defeat. it is also once again a result of my obsession of not appearing weak. it’s just so fucking ridiculous. RIDICULOUS. time for another espresso. so I can be elevated to hyper reality. a sort of a magical realism. made out of millions of pieces I collected along the way. most pieces are consequences of dreadful choices and erratic behavior of mine whenever I am besieged by anxiety and self loathing. one more espresso and then I can delete all of this. then later regret that I did. hopefully I won’t come back here to read this. or maybe I was accidentally given a decaf espresso.

see? so fucking weak I am that I am hoping for the end of the world or perhaps strong enough to press the ‘PUBLISH’ button.

pathetic.