We’ve often been told that to give in to our emotions would leave us stranded in a position—that while the journey is arguably worthwhile, or even sometimes enjoyable—most people would pay good money to avoid. We’ve all been in that place. That crucible where we give in to our whims. We knew it was a path better left alone. But the weed-choked alley somehow caught our fancy. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to take a short traipse down that path…
And therein lays my undoing.
I would risk calling myself a hedonist. A glutton, a sensualist —— a greedy little sponge. The list of pejoratives goes on and on. Even if I were to exhaust my formidable vocabulary I would still not have the words to describe my moments of weakness.
My contemplating my state of mind—if you can call it that!—is not a signal of depression, I assure you. I’ve been lucky enough to favour the manic side of bipolar disorder. Nor is it another promise (yet another one!) of turning over a new leaf—which I probably have no intention of keeping. Perhaps I like picking at scabs. Who doesn’t? Our closet masochists must be pandered to, after all. Whilst our inner drama queens take stock and unleash calamity upon diatribe upon tragedy on unsuspecting bystanders.
Perhaps neither scab-picking nor throwing expensive crockery at the wall is the solution. While waiting one to present itself, I’ll happily vacillate between the two!
And therein lays my undoing.
I would risk calling myself a hedonist. A glutton, a sensualist —— a greedy little sponge. The list of pejoratives goes on and on. Even if I were to exhaust my formidable vocabulary I would still not have the words to describe my moments of weakness.
My contemplating my state of mind—if you can call it that!—is not a signal of depression, I assure you. I’ve been lucky enough to favour the manic side of bipolar disorder. Nor is it another promise (yet another one!) of turning over a new leaf—which I probably have no intention of keeping. Perhaps I like picking at scabs. Who doesn’t? Our closet masochists must be pandered to, after all. Whilst our inner drama queens take stock and unleash calamity upon diatribe upon tragedy on unsuspecting bystanders.
Perhaps neither scab-picking nor throwing expensive crockery at the wall is the solution. While waiting one to present itself, I’ll happily vacillate between the two!
