Psychotic ramblings

I open the book again, thinking I would never revisit these chapters but no matter how much I try to suppress the memories they all come rushing back. The needles, not to be grim, they just stand out. The way I tore the nurses shirt, screaming "Do you want to die?", not because I wanted to hurt her but because I thought that was what they were doing to me. The way the whole plot seemed to fit together. I know I need to let go. It's hard it's like I've had a child, this memory is my child and it just keeps growing over time but at the same time I've tried to distance myself from it, eclipsing it from social situations, running it out of my mind not knowing that, like Janek said when we were on mexy, everything comes in circles. Did I sin so harshly, is this why this has happened? The hospitalisation, the despair my parents went through, not knowing if I would ever return, mentally. What was the cause? They told me I have Bi Polar, that it will be a life long condition. At times it feels like I'm riding a wave, a surfer, surfing the waves of my life, the creation of a multitude of colliding experiences and psychologies thrust into a pool, a whirlwind of memorial obscurity and madness. Ha, madness. I went mad, maybe I am still. Aren't we all a bit? Psychotic ramblings. When did I grow up so fast, when did life put me on this treadmill? I've settled down a lot, but I'm still not sure where to put the blame. I guess I just have to let it go. The shoplifting, the pot, MDMA, all of it, what was it for? To what end did it meet? Maybe to be sane is the only true madness. They say insanity is a reaction to being sane in an insane world. But you don't get it. How it felt. I want you to understand, to feel, never to go through it like I did but just for a second I want you to feel the mania, to know how it feels to be so disconnected that you feel detached from all of humanity but simultaneously more human than ever before. Like superwoman. I want to share with you every detail but it's hard. I'm sorry I don't talk about it more, but maybe it's for the best. I just want you to know I'm sorry but that I also don't regret everything that happened. I don't believe in God. I don't necessarily believe things happen for a reason. What I do know is that I have a truly remarkable capacity to love. I think I went crazy over you, I'm sorry if I scared you. I was so out of it that I thought I was carrying your child, but we had never even kissed. Is it that hard to assume that some part of me wanted you so bad that the connections in my brain made up this story to complete some unmet need in my subconscious, in my ID. I need you to know though that despite everything that's been said about you, you being nothing, the scum that let my pictures out, that for some undeniable, strange reason I will always love you. I never knew you, not a single bit. I am in love with the psychotic idea of you. I have since crawled a substantial amount out of the well I fell into when I fell for you because I just couldn't let myself drown in it, I'm with someone I love more than you now and although it's in a different way, it feels so much better, so much healthier. We were nothing really, just two people talking in the skatepark, flirting although your girlfriend was just around the corner, my friend, I betrayed. I felt like Judas, but you had a part to play too. It wasn't all just me. I've begged myself to forget you, but I can't for some reason. Maybe this, putting it out into the world will help me forget about you. You were a victim, a victim of my love, my psychotic love, my madness. And I was a victim to the feelings that overwhelmed me about you. I was a victim of paranoia, psychosis, bi polar, of many things but I don't think I have ever been a victim of your requited love, for you it was just lust and I literally feel this minute like I want to shed tears over it it's so sad. The way you felt just lust, and I was building a masterpiece of you in my mind. But all the brush strokes, I guess that they were just like your lust, shallow, heartless psychotic ramblings. So we'll call it even, then?