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Mental illness would be a lot more fun if it didn’t feel so much like mental illness.  Some things just feel profound to me today, like my sense that I am not such a good lier anymore.

I used to be able to follow the norms.  I used to be able to play the part a little better.

The part of what?

The part of something, in honesty, I don’t even know.  So I don’t even have an answer for who I have been all these years.

A part in the sham.

Kind of sad.




Really sad.


Isn’t it funny that I sort of wish I could be more fake when everywhere you look (or I look) I’m always finding these splendid, grand blog masters (and other professionals) on being real, authentic and present.

It’s bullshit.

Nobody really wants to be those things.  Because if they were….I guarantee most of the time they would probably hate it.

Ok.  So I don’t exactly like if at the moment, myself. And I’m really just speaking for myself.  I’ll keep this to myself.

No, not to myself.  I’m telling everything.


I’m telling.


I’m telling.

Yes.  I’m immature probably.

And I’m telling.


I know maybe nobody will care.

Most people didn’t care when I ever told anything before.  Before….before as in when I was going about acquiring the disease in my brain.  My heart.  My brain.  My f-ing heart.


It’s funny how your heart gets crushed and suddenly you’re labeled “mental.”
Oh well.


It’s hard to figure out what is true sometimes.


Am I just mental?  Or am I just sad?  Do I just feel pain?

What is this!?

I think people would just prefer me numb.  Nice and numb.

It’s lame.  That’s what it is.  It’s f-ing lame, especially when such a clean slate is getting a underpainting like this.

But it makes me feel a little bit better, strangely enough, that I wasn’t really anticipating a brand new canvas or anything.  Breaking the norms and all….the new year is kind of the same-old to me.

Life is too short (even when extended to the far end of the spectrum) for new years.  This is all one brilliantly stringed together life of days and they never really start over.

If there were I would have started over at some point by now.  I promise that.

This is the quiver-in-my-belly truth.

The end-of-year holidays pretty much do me in every time.

Even when I get a new puppy.  Even when I am venturing into places I’m passionate about in my little art world.

Nothing saves me from it.  It lingers and it taunts me all year long.  It is always there, just waiting…because it knows there is no escape from it where I live.  Unless I choose to live somewhere very different…from which there will be other just as bad or worse things I would be unable to escape from.

So, I get it all wrong.

This is supposed to be all clean and pure and high intentions and songs of praise for the coming light.

But all I feel is shaken into darkness at the moment.

At the moment.

The stupid moments I’m so much more present with because people tell me this is BETTER.


I’m getting well, you see.

It’s all so very clear!