- I’m consciously making mistakes. There, I said it. I carry these mistakes in a sealed envelope that reads “Provoked Actions”, but really, I know I’m just making excuses. It’s me from point A to point B. I don’t want to take the blame, I want to crib and complain. I am aware of the duplicity I’m brewing inside.
- He’s wrong for me in a million ways. So wrong, so different, just so not-for-me. But I love him. I love him despite the differences. We can’t survive, we are walking on cracked glass, but I want him there, walking beside him. I can’t get rid of his perfume lingering in all the memories. I can’t look at him without wanting to hold his face and kiss him. He’s so wrong for me. I can’t stay a day without talking to him. I want all of him, here, now and forever. Because he’s so wrong for me.
- How far can paperwork take you? I have read about it, researched about it. I’m clinging onto the edges of a torn tablecloth, hoping to live a little longer. I get so tired all the time. Too tired to try. Why do I have to fight the same battle twice? It’s impossible.
- It’s coming back. All of it. In bits and pieces, in installments. The flashbacks are playing on a loop, the sickness is hitting again, living is becoming unbearable. The escapism, the vertigo, the breathlessness, the crying, the anger, the aggression, the hatred, it’s all coming back. Am I going back to the psych ward?
- I’m doing so well with the mania. So well. I’m doing great with the depression too. I read bipolarity can’t be cured. I want it to go away, all of it. I want to be cured. Is there a place I can beg for it?