I have this recurring dream — a lucid dream — everything seems as if it’s really happening. In the dream, I wake up and my day begins as usual. I get my son off to school and go to work. After going to work, the details can be different from dream to dream, but the theme is always the same. Somehow, my day begins improving. It could be to the extreme, like I’ve somehow come into a lot of money. It could get better in a slight way, such as getting asked to do a really cool project at work, but the thing is, as soon as my day begins to progress towards the positive, I wake up. I don’t really wake up though. My day starts again. I drop my son off at the bus stop, get to work and my day starts getting really good. Then I wake up. Repeat. This cycle can continue for about seven or eight rounds. It’s quite strange and very draining.

My self-doubt is much like that dream. My life starts out stable. I begin to build myself up and, better yet, believe in myself. My life is going well and I’m happy. Then I wake up. I begin to over-analyze everything I do. In doing that, I see everything that is good and bad, but my mind focuses on the negative. Before long, I become paranoid that I’m doing everything wrong and begin to believe that I can’t do anything right. Things spiral out of control with a horrible depression, and when I recover from the devastation, life stabilizes. Repeat.

I’m a little angry with life tonight. Why do I always have to over-analyze what I think and do? Why should I have to get to the point where I feel that my thoughts are insignificant? Why? Because of that pesky little imperfection in my brain’s chemical balance called bipolar disorder. It creeps in my mind. It’s always there, even when I’m feeling well, lying in wait. Unfortunately, it’s not scheduled to depart anytime soon. So, yes, I’m angry… I’m mad that I’ll never know a life without self-doubt. I’m going to always second guess myself. It hurts because it defeats progress, but I can hurt… I can cry… I can scream, throw things, stomp my feet, cast myself to the floor and throw the most intense tantrum that anyone has ever seen. Nothing will stop it. I will forever experience periods of being trapped in my own head.

Forgive my little rant. My anger can be intense, but the good thing is that it’s fleeting. I feel better already. That’s why I write. I have to have some outlet for such extreme emotions. I usually applaud my fierce instincts. I like to believe that, although it takes me down some dark and scary paths, it allows me to see life in more vibrant hues than most. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s how I rationalize the need for such pain. It’s not all pain, after all. With the suffering also comes true bliss — an ecstasy that some can only find in their dreams.

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