It is strange living life with so much instability mentally. When I was young I would tell myself that as misfit as I am, at least I knew I could be true to myself. That authenticity was so core to my identity that I never questioned if I was I was feeling or thinking was “real.” Or if it was something that would change over time. The very essence of who I am and what I care about, the impulses and objectives and all that… wasn’t that… who I am?
Instead, over the years I’ve learned I’m a bit more complicated than that. I once cherished art and aesthetics. Now I think investment into such is meaningless, though appreciate any happiness or positive feeling that comes along with it. One example. But also my undiagnosed bipolar is not fun to accept. Not to embrace. But to rein in. To close out mistakes, despite that ink blotch dried into the fabric of life and not budging with any advanced cleaning technique. So there it is. But I don’t have to look at it. Though I do. To remember not to make any more stains. It’s important. Imperative, really.
Focusing on money is also tiring, but necessary. Eventually, I’ll be past that, I guess. When I have “enough.” Five million. So it seems. Then, I can move on from it. Have it, but not obsess over it. Though then I need a new obsession. Then my kids will be grown, probably. Unless I can get there before they hit puberty. That would be ideal. Taking my teenagers on world trips without worrying about my future. Knowing I can pay for my mother’s care in old age. All the things. I flew my sister out to visit because she doesn’t have any money and I like spending time with her (even though she constantly complains about it) and she’s the only family I have. Well, that’s $400 for a flight plus food while she’s here, and activities to keep her busy and not complaining that she would have rather used the days off to do something else. But she seemed happy to see her nephews.
Ink blotches messing with me though. So many I can ignore but had to go make a stain front and center. Why. Why let mania be so self destructive? All things considered, stain isn’t that bad, I guess. Just, embarrassing. So many other stains I just push aside. Never talk to people again, you know? A few words spilled make little difference if one can move on from the situation and try to learn from it. Except. Well, fuck. I was in such a bad place. Maybe it’s ok. I’m sick to my stomach and don’t remember the things I said. Just the gist of it. All the money in the world can’t fix that. Maybe it can fix me from any more stains in the future. Any more shouldn’t have said that or thought that. I’m sorry. Can I say that? Did I say that? Does it matter? Well. I am. And appreciative. For not saying any more. For words disappearing. For being so adult about everything. Damn mature. I’m learning. I’m old now. So I guess I need to learn. But it is chemical. I think. I don’t know. I went crazy then. I held it together, mostly. It all could have been a lot worse. But still kicking myself. Feel like I ruined one of the best things I had. Even though I didn’t. Did I. Unclear. Just because of words. Words words words. So long ago now. What happens to time. Time happens to it.
There is an emptiness, though. Unrelatedly. It’s this hole etched in me. This longing for connection. In mania, it seems possibly to fill, like this electric current running through me. In depression, it’s just there, infinitely hollow. I just want someone to see me. That can’t be bought. I made a few people laugh this week so that felt good. My typical humor. Inappropriate. Unexpected. Sarcastic. I like that. For a moment there’s a connection. With anyone who gets it. I’d pay for a companion like that. That would be safe. Just pay someone to go to dinner or drinks or whatever and we would look into each other’s eyes and talk about things and there would be serious and not-so-serious moments and we would just be there, connecting. “We” isn’t actually any one person and it’s not a romantic thing it’s like friendship but up a notch I guess if that’s a thing, I don’t think it’s allowed to be a thing, but I’m hungry for that kind of connection, whatever it is, I don’t know what to call it. I feel lonely otherwise. Though that’s my own fault.
I’m not drinking much anymore anyway. The worst of me is drunk me. So I’ve stopped that. I drink, but slowly and deliberately and with awareness. A glass of wine or two. If I am feeling off mentally for the day I just won’t drink. Not one sip. It’s not worth it. I’m holding myself accountable for myself. I’m holding myself together. Barely. But if I can convince everyone else I’ve got it all superglued tight I guess that’s the best victory I can ask for.