Misplaced Monologues: "Haley 2.0 (or "why I shouldn't journal")"

I have become the best version of myself. It’s taken thirty five years of explosive mania to comprehend best does not equate to happiest. I’ve been happier. I’ve been the happiest person on the face of the planet. I’m happy for shining moments and long stretches. It ebbs and flows like the moon’s tide boner. I’m not normal, but none of us are normal. There is no normal.

There are others like me, and when I find them? Those are the golden days. The fire-filled friendship marathons where I am more in love with that specific person than I ever have been with myself or any other human alive. Every time I love, it feels bigger and more complete. Closer to fucking nirvana, though I’m an atheist and believe in nothing, save for people.

I fucking believe in people. My salvation is people. The romance of an encounter. The thrill when you get a text from just the person you’re waiting for. When you see them and have the same exact thought at the precise same moment in time in this giant fucking impossibly vast realty. When that happens: that is bliss.

I started crying typing the above paragraph, but not the type of crying that leaves you rocked and hollow, like grief. The style where there’s an emotion building so warm and fast it feels akin to climax and you’re surprised your Hello Kitty PJ pants remain dry.

Connections. Salvation without spirituality. These synapses that happen before our very eyes while simultaneously occurring deep within our cerebral cortexes. My gray matter is damaged, doubtlessly. Maybe I can never be happy like I once was. Maybe that’s perfect. Maybe I’ll learn to fall in love with this and know it as better. Superior.

I am the best version of myself. I’ve reached the highest plane of my long-yet-short existence–so far.

And I still wonder what I’m doing wrong. Isn’t that fucking crazy? Isn’t it senseless? Or is it what I need. To keep pushing. Driving, striving, living; because I’ve wanted to be done. We’ve all wanted to be done, haven’t we? It isn’t just me, but we don’t always talk about suicide until it’s been achieved. Until it’s past tense, like my fiction.

Open dialog within this monolog always. Reach out to me, Haley B. I see you. You aren’t invisible to me. Hope I’m not to you, either. And even if I am?

I’m the best version of myself. I’m not going to edit this.

Love Always @HaleyBCU
P.S. haleybcu@mail.com & @HaleyBCU on all social networks. If you need me.