There are never the right words to describe how beautifully I seem to feel things, deeply and passionately, dangerously. I am all in, for everything. And I fall, to the ground and I bruise myself a little, some scratches here and there … but I always get back up, and I always have an open heart. And how many people can say they never let someone change them for the worst? I’ve continued to trust, be vulnerable, exposed, to fall and repeat again. Because every wrong choice and every damaging experience only opens doors to new possibilities. Who knows where I’ll be to tomorrow or who I’ll meet or how I’ll feel it’s all so undecided. Who knows what I’ll do? I play the part of a resident of earth, another number to the population total, a space to occupy, but in my limited space of seemingly limited opportunity, it is mine to do away with, it is mine to feel and fall and explore every last part of it, and no matter what I do or where I go the world still turns, and the sun still sets, and the waves still crash. but maybe if we all stopped and walked backwards for a while we could slow down time for just a minute, and feel as if we’re apart of something bigger then ourselves. I will continue to be me, but sometimes it’s nice knowing if it really counts for anything.
Yes this is as crazy as the title would lead you to believe, I genuinely miss feeling awful on a daily basis! I think this is because along with all the tear stains and mental breakdowns, came a writing inspirtation I have yet to reclaim since being “okay.”
Being in a rough patch mentally let me express emotions and feelings I had supressed or been unable to reach. Latley I find my racing mind stuck staring at a blank page unable to even get a single word down. No matter what I read or what events I experience, I am unable to find any inspiration or motivation to get my piece done. I am currently working on a poetry book which will be hardly graded at the end of my term and I have yet to be satisfied with any of my work!
My mother told me when I first began medication for my bipolar disorder that she thought it wasn’t such a good idea. She told me “All writers and geniuses were mad, that’s what made them great.” I had laughed this off at first, but I’m begininning to see that there has to be some truth behind that. Being overemotional about everything always gave me the power to exaggerate my life experiences and pour it into a faction story, but now I am blank. I want to stop taking my meds so I can feel just a taste of my despair again, but I don’t think it would be wise. I’m not happy now, but I’m not sad, I’m just this empty hole devouring my life into nothingness. None of this probably makes sense but I just had to put it out there.
I was always taught that lies were terrible, “The truth will set you free” was a famous quote my mother loved to recite. Yet honesty has never felt like freedom to me, it is a birdcage holding me captive, the truth has become a sword through my spine. It’s painful. I lie to others and myself because it is what’s best for me. If I pretend that I’m confident, then maybe I’ll be able to look at myself in the mirror again, and stop having to wash my makeup and tear stained pillow cases. If I pretend to be happy, then maybe I might be someday. If I tell myself I don’t love you anymore, then maybe one day I really won’t. I’m sorry mother, but lying has become my liberation.