Journal..9/8/26
Today marks the very first time I've ever blogged, or dipped my toes into the online community. Being unbearably socially awkward, I avoid human contact by all means. Luckily, I'm married and am close to some family members and that it is as many people I need in my life. Most of my time is spent with my favorite TV shows and movies and writing and translating manga from Japanese to English. I work at a roofing company where I weld membrane into waterproof boots. It's a fun job and allows me time to outline stories as I weld. I struggle, however, with bipolar disorder type 1 and find it difficult to make it into work often. To my great shame, I miss far too much work and having this disorder is extremely frustrating. I wake up many mornings, feeling lost and melancholic. It morphs as the morning begins in the form of self-loathing, shame, fear, humiliation - that which plagues even the noblest of hearts. I succumb to the weight of these feelings, crumbling like the pathetic worm I am and I hate myself for it. But, I suppose my childhood did me no favors in emotional experience. On another note, I do find reprieve and grace within me at some times. When I write, my true world shrinks from view and I am utterly free to explore any world I choose. More often than not, though, I am tremulously navigating my way through social situations. I greatly dislike to talk to people and keep to myself in almost every instance. This is not due to anything other than suspicion: every bit of personal information will be used to insult me, unconscious slights with a glance or word, misunderstood at every turn and hated for it. I used to be that person that no one wanted to be associated with. I have changed greatly but those memories of adolescent and young adult confusion were with a terrible sense of humor. Much of this was due to the fact that my father and mother beat me for every mistake. Perhaps not beat...but more like spanking? My father would wrap up a back scratcher with padding and black duct tape and named it "The Beating Stick". When he was displeased with me, he would force me to stand still, yell at me not to move, rear back his arm and hit me with all the strength he could summon. By god, did it hurt. To his credit, he always said the padding was a kindness. What a damned fool he is, a violent fool, a pathetic fool. I have seen my father once in six years at my little sister's wedding. He ignored me and refused to acknowledge my existence. He is a terrible example of a father. My mother is no better and, perhaps, she is even worse. She would beat me with her hands, scratch me and draw blood, choke me with a clawed grip, scream and roll around on the ground, beating her chest like an animal. I don't know where I'm going with this...just running along with my thoughts. My life nowadays is pretty great outside of missing work. I've been feeling better overall and feel like now is the time for me to come back to being stable. If only I could overcome myself in the morning, I'm sure once I get to work I'll feel much better. I just need to step outside that door and that's what I will do now. With renewed vigor, the onus is upon me to change my life as I wish. But I am terrified. I am so scared. The fear of my inner child diffuses through my blood and I don't know how to tell that child that it's okay now. She is so lost in the mire of suffering that I scarcely know how to reach her. I am weak. I want the comfort of my apartment and my dogs. I want the safety in screens and writing. I want to fulfill a better image of myself that, until now, has remained shrouded from my view. I don't know if I have the spirit to rally against circumstance. But, I'm going to try. Will check in again soon with my thoughts, end journal here.