Consensus: I am unable to focus on anything but my failures.
Okay, that’s a pretty archaic consensus for me, but nevertheless, it’s depressing as hell.
And I’ve got this new mentality of not wanting any help. I’ve developed this complex about self-sufficiency. I think that’s a positive trait in a general sense, but I’ve honed it to a fault. I feel this need to do everything by myself, to keep functioning by myself, and not only that, but to do these things perfectly, better than anyone else, better, especially, than the mentally healthy. I have to prove myself to everyone, every individual on the planet. As a bipolar person. As a young person. As a female. As this piece of shit that I am. I must prove that this piece of shit can do everything the non-shits can do, better than the non-shits, superbly, impeccably. I am obsessed with it, completely obsessed.
I think of nothing else but how I’ve failed in the past and how I cannot fail now and attempts to avoid thinking of how I’m doomed for the future, how I’ll be in debt to the ceiling, how I’ll be stuck with 3 years or a bachelor’s in psychology and I’ll die working in Starbucks and living alone with my four cats and I’ll never write anything again because it will hurt too much, physically from arthritis or carpal tunnel or Parkinson’s and mentally from increasing insanity. I won’t be able to afford my meds, so I’ll just go off the deep end, never getting the courage to actually off myself, just walking like a cyclone through everyone’s lives, tearing up everything.
The guilt is overwhelming. The guilt of being privileged and not taking advantage of it. The guilt of feeling like I’m not privileged enough. The guilt of not being everything my parents wanted me to be. The guilt of not being a good friend, to anyone, to ruining all my friendships, not making new ones. The guilt of not escaping the hole of this disease, just holding onto the edge and pretending I’m out and I’m fine and I can do this forever. The guilt of doing the same things I did before. The guilt of failure.
It’s never enough.
And it’s always the same.
And I feel like it’s inevitable that one day it’ll destroy me, the sameness and the constant battle that you never really win. You never win. And you never lose. All you can do is keep playing or forfeit. And I feel like I’ll eventually choose the latter, and everyone will hate me.
They already hate me. Or they don’t care. I can’t decide which is worse.
Blah blah blah. Fuck this. I’m so sick of this. Sometimes I feel like the frustration of constantly thinking, saying, doing the same bullshit will grow so great that my brain will explode. And then I feel like that would be nice, to not have my brain. But I guess I wouldn’t feel anything because I’d be dead. Right.
Which is an interesting thought: the best and worst things, they’re all in your head. It’s like the way they treat bipolar: you have to treat the hypomania with the depression. You can’t keep one and lose the other. They can’t put you permanently in that semi-high, that impulsive fantasy life. It’s a shame.
It’s all a shame.
It’s all shame.