Communication is not easy for me. I have these impulses to run. I want to say they are new, but they are not. I have physically packed some stuff and split a few times. Before the bipolar diagnosis and getting sober, I would just run and drown, in the bottle. I cant escape my thoughts. I can’t escape you asking me about my thoughts. I can’t sleep. I have a fantasy that I will find a quaint hotel on the beach and come to some sort of realization about myself. Solve the riddle. At least emerge from my sequester released from the bondage of self. Didn’t really work last time. I was quite manic. I have lists upon lists of ways I could be a better person. Sometimes I can see that’s not really the issue. I am already a better person. What I am longing for is feeling/believing I am a worthy person despite this illness. That even steeped in madness, crying on the floor, kicking the cat, or frozen on the couch unable to communicate I am still worthy. Even when all I can think of are ways to end my life. To end the pain. Don’t take my meds. Take too many of my meds. I’m still okay. I’m still loveable. When I hurl mean emotional daggers at your head I would never normally say, when I can’t let you in, when I skip my psych appointments, or I hide beyond my wall I am still special. Breaks my heart. Looking in the mirror sometimes and just wanting to give up. When tired wraps itself around my body and I cant cook dinner or clean the house. When I run, I only have me to feel guilty about. I want to be more, not less.