I don’t know what to say - I think I’m using this instead of my diary at the moment … maybe I’ll delete this tumblr soon. I feel it might have run it’s course - but there are so many people I want to keep in contact with through here. So confusing. Sometimes when I write I think it’s just me to myself. If I’m on my own I sometimes can make myself believe that I’m the only human left and it is just a way of talking to myself that is outside my own head.
I’m tired of everything really. I’m tired of being angry at myself for having an illness which I can’t justify to myself in terms of the world we live in, and the famine and poverty we’re surrounded by. I’m tired of this bubble of detached existence I’m living, scared to try anything new - but scared to be stuck as I am.
I know that for me ‘art doesn’t heal’. It’s just not what I am destined to do. There are months where I love it, and months where there is nothing I am less interested in than art. Maybe it’s the bipolar, but I think it’s more likely that it’s me. To be honest the only thing I’m good at is helping others, and being ill myself. It’s so perverse and so boring - but it’s something I am secure and sure in. I feel like it’s the right thing to keep doing. I can’t deserve not to have it.
Sometimes I wonder is it the remains of the guilt brought on by my own religious childhood that makes me feel so worthless. I think the guilt I felt for everything. Man, I actually kind of believe only I will see this - I don’t actually know if I’m writing this. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll know it’s real and take it down or not. It’s a bit to honest and close to the truth. I don’t feel quite myself. I almost feel like I’m watching myself as I write this. Not watching myself but distancing myself from myself. Like there are two of me right now. One typing and one listening.
So back to pondering. I think, if I am actually being honest with myself - it’s a lot of the guilt I felt when I was young. Like I couldn’t stop my sister being hurt. We were both really young and although she was older than me, I felt like I should have protected her - and I failed. I definitely could have done more. And maybe that’s why I can’t deserve to be happy, because I couldn’t protect and make my sister stay happy. I think ultimately, all the pain and distress shrouding my family came/comes from me. The more I think about it, the more I think that whether it is true or not is irrelevant - because I can feel I definitely believe that. Why? I really don’t understand. I mean I never cry, but i actually have tears in my eyes because I know I believe that. I know I believe - no I just know that all the pain that happens around my friends and family somehow stems from some kind of weird darkness I have in myself. And I don’t know how to get rid of it. I try and try and warn people that I can be hurtful, hateful. But then the evil part of me let’s people get near me. Let’s people trust in me. And more dangerously let’s myself trust in other people. Because I genuinely think that me relying on other people sucks them of their own happiness. Somehow I’m a portal for sadness.
And I don’t know what is to be done about it. Will I be ill forever? If so what kind of existence is that … and more to the point what kind of burden is that on those around me. I’ve already destroyed my family - do I really need to do the same to my friends.
I really just don’t understand anything. I’m up - I’m down - I’m happy - I’m sad - I’m motivated - I’m a slob. I really can’t get these things out … not even voices - but just pages and pages of writing in my head. Like scripts swirling around in my head. None of them properly coherent, apart from the ones finalising and reminding me the only thing I know to be a real … that 1.my illness is real and always there, and 2.I am dangerous to those around me. So where does that leave this situation…i…h.a.v.e…n.o…i.d.e.a…