Ramblings of the Utterly Deranged
Sometimes, mostly while alone I feel that pull of a familiar and comfortable sadness. It feels like an injury I’ve carried my whole life, waiting for a bit of stress to remind the body it exists. There’s a deep sadness I carry, some days tucked away and masked by life more than others.
When busy or replaced with anything else, it stays as a background actor of the mind; but once the scene of the day ends it remains as a stable piece of scenery. A constant low drone of a quiet backdrop. Almost like a firm eye contact with no message conveyed, other than a reminder of the baseline state doomed to return to.
Bad attempts at poetry aside, I remember watching a video that mentioned that bipolar disorder was one of the few mental illnesses where victims would decide to have it if they somehow had a choice. I have fortunately not had bipolar disorder, but I’ve thought about my own issues in the same context: would I want to have them if given a choice? I do think that it does act as a driving force, as a constant shepherd behind with a crop, hitting you for not moving. A big way I motivate myself for going to the gym is the question I ask myself: am I willing to go back to how it was? And every time, the answer is that I am willing to do whatever it takes to not be back in that place again. So I guess that’s my answer, as non-commital as can be.