Swelltide.

Had a long drive to D.C. yesterday. Plenty of time to think about things, and plenty of time to evaluate some things.

I have felt stagnant the last couple of years. Living out of a tiny room. Working a job that bores me, and that I get nothing out of, more than a meager paycheck. I haven't painted anything in years. I've only just begun to create music again. I don't write anymore.

It is my fault.

It is easy to change. People just deny themselves the ability to change. I could have quit my job for something that satisfies me, years ago. I could have written a novel, or several novels, with the amount of time that I have wasted throughout my life, doing nothing. Playing video games. Taking naps in the afternoon. Last week, I had several days without work-- and I walked around in circles, feeling isolated and lonely, trying to think of something to do. I could have jumped in my car and went for a drive. I could have gone for a walk. I could have done anything. Instead, I took a nap on the couch. I folded laundry.

I deny myself happiness. Sometimes, I use bipolar as an excuse. To do nothing. To not feel well. To laze about and feel sorry for myself. That has become a new kind of hobby of mine. Sitting quietly, because I'm depressed. Allowing myself to feel lonely because I am depressed. Doing nothing because I am depressed.

My job bores me, because I let it. I could be reading a book, and getting paid to read it, nearly every day. I could be paying bills, and writing letters with my down-time. When work for me is slow-- I hate it. When I'm busy-- I hate it. Because, I want to hate it. I haven't asked for a raise-- though I am probably the most competent person there, because I never considered staying that long. Its been seven years. I should have left six years ago. I should have valued myself enough to have left six years ago.

I think my medication has begun to work. My moods have leveled off, a little. I've gotten a bit of sleep the last couple of days-- I feel pretty good.