That restless urge to go out creeps in again. The euphoria convinces me that this time will be different, that something exciting might happen. But I already know how this story ends.

I’ll waste money on things that don’t matter. I’ll drink, even though I know how bad it is for me. I’ll skip my Quetiapine, the only thing keeping me stable. For what? To end up in some random bar, surrounded by people I don’t connect with. To pay for a friend’s drinks who won’t even appreciate it. To chase an idea of fun that only leads me back to chaos.

Staying in isn’t boring, it’s choosing stability over self-destruction. It’s enjoying a good movie, sleeping well, and waking up without regrets. Going out isn’t fun, it’s my bipolar brain pushing me toward another crash. I won’t fall for it again.