I don’t want to make an elaborate entry in my bullet journal. This evening I’ve done a painting, and I think that’s more than enough to describe how I feel about myself this year. Two hands, with the same black core but different colours on their fingertips. That also defines how I am as someone who has bipolar disorder. I like the base colour—even though somehow yellow was never my favourite colour. But I used a lot of yellow in my journal lately, and I know it just means a phase in my life. A phase that might pass or return. A phase that is neither right nor wrong.
The painting was not at all artistic. My younger sister blatantly called it ugly, but I know it is not supposed to look nice. My 2019 doesn’t look nice overall—it’s a whole lots of mountains, steeping too up or too down. I don’t particularly like it, but I accept it that way. I never meant it to be pretty. I didn’t even use real brush. Just wet tissue and my own hands. I let the white parts blank—I don’t think pouring any colour there will be appropriate. I don’t want to. It’s good just as it is. I don’t want to add anything into it.
It’s messy and confusing. It’s rushed and feeling scared. It’s 2019 for me. And it has ended.
OUTRO: When I read this entry again today on July 16th, 2020, the painting was hung above my room’s window. Somehow I feel proud that I’ve made that painting and that I’ve survived 2019. It’s halfway through 2020 and I’m definitely doing a lot better than last year.