I’m pretty sure there is no more alcohol in this house, I drank it dry, but I got plans to refill the coffers of the estate in a distant land some call the future when I am old, too old to do much but write checks, sign forms, ride on spaceships of my own design, my making, a phsy phi movie, with the masters, with Nash and Sendak, with Moratta and the Spells, with Shug Knight and his dynamite, with Tu Pac the moment that last bullet struck gold ...
The boundaries of who you are, how you act, start slipping away ever so slowly. At first you just think you are in a better mood, and maybe that’s all you are.
Did I know I was in a manic episode? How could I not know? How could I not look for help instead of whatever insanity I let myself travel towards? How how how .... do I sound like an Indian? Does that question offend you?
Just me in the car. It had been just me for days. Reaching out to social media occasionally to wave my crazy flag.
My stomach felt like water was boiling inside it. Angry butterflies that would not stop their painful flutter. The fear, the agitation, anxiety I usually call it, but its more like being perpetually ...
Sometimes I realize that my personality is basically the jail house ***** of perpetual introspection
Self involvement is probably more accurate. Introspection is the dumb self grasping at explanations of evolving memories as they pile up always too fast, always out of reach, always always always then you just ******* die one day.
And that's it isn't it. Whatever else happens that will be my story.
We can never understand what it is because it keeps changing them we all eventually die and that's it.
It's pretty ******* terrifying.
It will make you hide things.
Wishing for a better past is futile
self-torture
a form of the ultimate folly:
feeling sorry for yourself.
It makes you feel pathetic.
Especially if you actually are pathetic.
If your life is a failure of your own making
In cooperation with a mental illness
Which is making me feel so sad and pathetic
I can think of little else but how pathetic I am
But my present seems futile.
There is not much in my reality that is hopeful even when I’m in a better mood.
In short, my life seems hopeless.
I don’t have a job, or a mate, and I’m not likely to find either one any time soon.
I have barely any work experience
I’m 36 years old.
I live with my parents.
I have a bad case of bipolar disorder and a bad case of ADHD and I know that makes it unlikely I will ever be able to succeed at anything. Of course one of the illnesses might be right now telling me things are worse than they seem.
I am suicidal but afraid to **** myself. I wonder if I’ll ever find the desperation or the courage. As I get older my situation seems worse and worse. I cant seem to get myself to act to change it. I can’t ACT. I can’t DO. How is this possible? how am I like this? How? How? How?
Writing something seems like some kind of action.
Something productive, in theory.
This is what I come up with.
Bad poetry.
Worse than usual.
Just try to write something anything
feel the keys bounce
remember what its like to say something
taste it
let it flow
let it go
what?
what can’t I let go?
what blocks?
just bounce bounce bounce
no one will read this but I need to find that hidden somber knowing inner voice
no matter how fake it is
etch it out
send it out
to the world
let it fly
There has to be something to say hasn’t there?
Write about a manic episode … how to begin? What moment to draw out?
Gotta try not o ********** all day tomorrow
Gotta try
can’t promise anything
this is who I am
I hate myself, of course
how could I not
And on and on and on
Just writing anything
writing “writing”
like Jack Nicholson in The Shining
Jack is a dull boy
Jack is a dull boy
Jack is a dull boy
God help me
but he won’t
of course not
this is a warm fuzzy version of hell
not that bad
except the self-loathing
oh God why me the self-pity
typing typing typing
It would not surprise me
if I never really wrote anything
just a total loser
jerking off all day
not working
living with my parents
watching teenagers **** on the internet
why am I like this?
How can I change myself?
I want to change myself
I really do
God help me
but he won’t
just on and on
nothing gets done
I am nothing
I want to **** myself
but I don’t have the guts
I want to die
I want to die
I say it all the time its mostly about the shame of who I am I can’t stand it it goes on and on
everything bad starts out innocently enough
rock before the roll
this is not writing I can’t write
am I just too ******
would I write anything sober?
I live my life in a hell not quite of my making
I want to die I want to die I want to die
I want to live I want to live I want to live
type type type
****
this can’t be my life
I say that over and over to myself
because it is in a way hard to believe
but here it is
at least I’m typing typing typing
simple thoughts like
I don’t like my ******* life
maybe If I could just accept it the pain would dwindle
the loathing would subside
but how can I accept this ****
at least I’m typing typing
too ******
****** dumb
too dumb to think of anything worth writing
just a self hat clusterfuck
of a brain
I want to finally die of shame
mercy please
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
I’m pretty sure there is no more alcohol in this house, I drank it dry, but I got plans to refill the coffers of the estate in a distant land some call the future when I am old, too old to do much but write checks, sign forms, ride on spaceships of my own design, my making, a phsy phi movie, with the masters, with Nash and Sendak, with Moratta and the Spells, with Shug Knight and his dynamite, with Tu Pac the moment that last bullet struck gold ...
The boundaries of who you are, how you act, start slipping away ever so slowly. At first you just think you are in a better mood, and maybe that’s all you are.
Did I know I was in a manic episode? How could I not know? How could I not look for help instead of whatever insanity I let myself travel towards? How how how .... do I sound like an Indian? Does that question offend you?
Just me in the car. It had been just me for days. Reaching out to social media occasionally to wave my crazy flag.
My stomach felt like water was boiling inside it. Angry butterflies that would not stop their painful flutter. The fear, the agitation, anxiety I usually call it, but its more like being perpetually ...
Sometimes I realize that my personality is basically the jail house ***** of perpetual introspection
Self involvement is probably more accurate. Introspection is the dumb self grasping at explanations of evolving memories as they pile up always too fast, always out of reach, always always always then you just ******* die one day.
And that's it isn't it. Whatever else happens that will be my story.
We can never understand what it is because it keeps changing them we all eventually die and that's it.
It's pretty ******* terrifying.
It will make you hide things.
Wishing for a better past is futile
self-torture
a form of the ultimate folly:
feeling sorry for yourself.
It makes you feel pathetic.
Especially if you actually are pathetic.
If your life is a failure of your own making
In cooperation with a mental illness
Which is making me feel so sad and pathetic
I can think of little else but how pathetic I am
But my present seems futile.
There is not much in my reality that is hopeful even when I’m in a better mood.
In short, my life seems hopeless.
I don’t have a job, or a mate, and I’m not likely to find either one any time soon.
I have barely any work experience
I’m 36 years old.
I live with my parents.
I have a bad case of bipolar disorder and a bad case of ADHD and I know that makes it unlikely I will ever be able to succeed at anything. Of course one of the illnesses might be right now telling me things are worse than they seem.
I am suicidal but afraid to **** myself. I wonder if I’ll ever find the desperation or the courage. As I get older my situation seems worse and worse. I cant seem to get myself to act to change it. I can’t ACT. I can’t DO. How is this possible? how am I like this? How? How? How?
Writing something seems like some kind of action.
Something productive, in theory.
This is what I come up with.
Bad poetry.
Worse than usual.
Just try to write something anything
feel the keys bounce
remember what its like to say something
taste it
let it flow
let it go
what?
what can’t I let go?
what blocks?
just bounce bounce bounce
no one will read this but I need to find that hidden somber knowing inner voice
no matter how fake it is
etch it out
send it out
to the world
let it fly
There has to be something to say hasn’t there?
Write about a manic episode … how to begin? What moment to draw out?
Gotta try not o ********** all day tomorrow
Gotta try
can’t promise anything
this is who I am
I hate myself, of course
how could I not
And on and on and on
Just writing anything
writing “writing”
like Jack Nicholson in The Shining
Jack is a dull boy
Jack is a dull boy
Jack is a dull boy
God help me
but he won’t
of course not
this is a warm fuzzy version of hell
not that bad
except the self-loathing
oh God why me the self-pity
typing typing typing
It would not surprise me
if I never really wrote anything
just a total loser
jerking off all day
not working
living with my parents
watching teenagers **** on the internet
why am I like this?
How can I change myself?
I want to change myself
I really do
God help me
but he won’t
just on and on
nothing gets done
I am nothing
I want to **** myself
but I don’t have the guts
I want to die
I want to die
I say it all the time its mostly about the shame of who I am I can’t stand it it goes on and on
everything bad starts out innocently enough
rock before the roll
this is not writing I can’t write
am I just too ******
would I write anything sober?
I live my life in a hell not quite of my making
I want to die I want to die I want to die
I want to live I want to live I want to live
type type type
****
this can’t be my life
I say that over and over to myself
because it is in a way hard to believe
but here it is
at least I’m typing typing typing
simple thoughts like
I don’t like my ******* life
maybe If I could just accept it the pain would dwindle
the loathing would subside
but how can I accept this ****
at least I’m typing typing
too ******
****** dumb
too dumb to think of anything worth writing
just a self hat clusterfuck
of a brain
I want to finally die of shame
mercy please
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