Reflections

I should hope that in the future I can articulate my anger, distress, dynamic moods, and sadness in a more affluent fashion. Wednesday night was not one I savor. I'm very sorry to have frightened anyone that possibly wastes their time on reading this by my previous post. In most respects I am okay. I am alive.
I've heard more than once that I shouldn't make my personal problems so public, but I do not listen to such advice. First of all, there are very few people that bother to read these thoughts of mine, and secondly, what good are emotions if they aren't shared with the world? Words have so much beauty, awe, sadness within if arranged in the correct way, and I believe everyone should have a chance to experience them. We can write because it provokes another to think, to experience, to relate. I find no reason to keep my emotions bottled up, or in any way to myself, when another human being would willingly read them and relate to their own life. Perhaps they will find the beauty, pain, and suffering I so disastrously attempt to express. My words are screaming from within me, and I cannot suppress what I feel needs to be said. There is nothing wrong with that, because I find today there are very few that would think to spend their time on something such as words.
In the past month my life has taken drastic turns down a road almost ancient to me. For a long time I knew it was coming, that a fork would bring me back to it's ancient ruts. I haven't stepped foot on it in what feels as ages. I could see it running parallel to the road I call "my way", but pretended I did not see it. Now I find that my life has taken the worst turns I can bear to let it take, and I have found myself too emotionally ill to make it through a day without wishing I would be erased from existence. Yes, for a long time I avoided this old path, but now I find myself standing at it's doorstep with no other option in sight. It is now that I take a breath of cold, autumn air and step forward. I feel the discomfort and unwillingness rise up in me, and push it back. I have no other choice but to give up all I've allowed myself to know for the past three years, and start anew. I must say farewell to the love lost and the tears shed. I've wasted enough long nights staring at my wall, and wondering where I went wrong to lose everything I ever cared for. It is goodbye to a life of destruction.
Even I know it's not completely my fault. There is a clinical aspect to my illness that needs drastic attention, but even I know it shall be pushed aside. We will pretend it is a false existence. Yes, I will be fine; there is no such chemical imbalance within me that makes me want to slit my wrists in a bathtub or feel so overwhelmingly excited that I think I can fly. (Dream Theater, About to Crash reference). Besides my bad decisions, it is the very core of my sadness, my problems. But still, my family will pretend it is not there. Denial is a beautiful thing until someone gets hurt.
I'm not sure there is anything else I need to say today. My stomach still hurts, and it is my fault. I've cleaned my room, done laundry, and drafted an essay for English. Already I'm stressed and overwhelmed about next semester. Nursing school will most likely be the death of me, and I say that with no remorse. It is beautiful out, and while I'm in a comfortable, terrifying place between happiness and sad, I will try to enjoy what life has to offer.