Today, I give myself permission to sit around and feel sorry for myself. Pathetic? Yes, especially when I type it out. But I need a break, a break from telling myself whatever I do is wrong or not good enough, a break from examining my broken edges and filing them down into pretty little rounds. I’m tired. My brain haunts me during the day, and tortures me while I try to sleep. There’s no relief.
If I don’t give myself permission to do nothing today, the hypomania will bubble over and I won’t be able to stop what happens. I’m scared. Every day for the past month I’ve fantasized about looking you in the eyes, to see if you know, if you understand, just how deep my love is for you. But you cannot fathom it. You’ve never been able to. You spent years telling me that I have no idea how much you care for me, but I did know. I don’t know anymore. You lump me in with the rest of your baggage, like everything we’ve been through together, all the words, all the unspoken words, mean nothing any longer. I’m drowning in pain.
I want to be content with what I have, but I never am. Will I ever be? That’s the worst question to ask myself. Today, I won’t ask. I’ll just be.
I'm tired, let's wash away 