@galileogirl I understand. It makes sense. It still bothers me, since I believe in exposing all my flaws (which is my version of telling the truth). If someone can love me after that, then I might believe they actually do love me. But I guess I can’t even handle that (love or appreciation or respect). I find myself seeking to destroy the good things (or so my therapist says).
It’s as if I need to be depressed. I always lash out at those who are closest to me. Then I hate myself even more for doing that, and I keep on doing it, knowing exactly what I am doing, and choosing to do it. I think I almost want to be hated. Or scorned. My therapist thinks it has to do with what happened in my childhood, but that doesn’t really help now.
If people knew I chose to be depressed, would they stop sympathizing with me? That would be ideal, because then I could get no help. Then my beliefs about the place I have in the world would be true. No one would care, because they knew I was just making it happen, and I could stop it if I wanted.
At least, I believe I can. I believe it’s me that is just choosing not to. I don’t believe that bipolar disorder is really a disease. I think it’s a category that other people make up because they can’t believe anyone would choose to take as much pain as they could—to the point where they want to die. I suppose this sounds crazy. Random. Disjointed. I’d like to think it does, anyway.
It’s good to be crazy. It’s good to embrace the pain. It’s good to be in a place where everyone hates you. Because then, it can’t get any worse. It can only get better, no matter which way you choose to get out.
That’s my confession.