I know all about commitment. I commit to hiding and exaggerating my flaws, trying to make others happy and comfortable at the expense of my own happiness and comfort, supporting other people’s dreams at the expense of my own dreams, and criticizing myself and others at every turn. I commit to what I think I should be rather than committing to meeting myself where I am. I commit to seeing myself through other people’s eyes, gauging my self-worth based on their acceptance rather than witnessing my unique inner beauty and strength. I commit to being nice rather than being real. I commit to being right rather than being vulnerable. When other people in my life don’t behave in the way that I think they should I sulk and mope or worse, I get even. I justify my emotional outbursts or bad behavior based on the actions of others and in so doing; I often act in the same manner as the person who set me off in the first place. When I give others the power to push my emotional buttons, I become their slave often without realizing it. The problem is I am the one who suffers.
The feelings and thoughts, the interior monolog I have running through my brain. Some of the things I silently tell myself, otherwise: I appreciate people who are patient with me while I am sometimes distant, trying to figure myself out on an ongoing basis. I sit here, at my cluttered desk, unshaven, and disheveled. Crowded thoughts race through my head, in this wild jungle; my brain, the eye of a tornado, and I think part of it, part of what I am thinking, or trying to think, to believe, comes down to knowing for myself, perhaps, that I may be a real person. A good man hides somewhere inside this cage of my body. This part of me, or in some cases, us, often hides in the depths of all uncertainties, fears, and indecent behavior, both artistically and personally. I am not perfect by any means, I treat many people including my hundreds of readers, to whom I [repeated word: I ... I ... I...] I am a fully-fledged narcissist lacking self-esteem or self-worth. But I should show appreciation, but instead, I provoke them. I provoke you. I know that my intentions are favorable. My heart and my soul, so to speak, are pure, and I love hard, painfully and intensely with everything I've got, though it often does not show. It is because of these things that I know somewhere way deep down inside that I am worth it, as sad, lonely, desperate, sordid and colorless and as pathetic as my life has become. I have always held love in my heart, and that will never change no matter how inappropriate or inadequate or wrongly I express love, gratitude, appreciation in experiencing a valuable life, I don’t know the value of things. I just can’t grasp value. I don’t know. It is just really hard for me to find much joy or peace of mind or any elation in my life, though I am aware there are apparently many things of which to be joyful. I just can't see it, find it, or know it as my severely mentally ill, volatile mind deteriorates. Blah, blah, blah. Fuck it; none of this makes any sense whatsoever. That’s all for now.
— Jonathan Harnisch