I can see where he's coming from.

Lately, all I can think about is meaning. Having a purpose. I don't know what triggered it, but something inside me was definitely triggered within the past few years. I woke up and realized I do the same thing, every day... and as a wise man once said... doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome that's madness. So, it got me thinking about meaning, purpose. I honestly believe that humans need to have some kind of purpose. For some, that's raising children. For others, that may be raising horses, or dogs, or fish. Still, for many, it might be a career. Teaching, healing, what have you. And day in and day out, I sit wondering what my purpose is.

I guess that might be why I got so lost this year. I was trying desperately to find my purpose and have been unsuccessful. I wonder if, maybe, this suffering is - in a way - my meaning. I'm a writer. I have a way with words. My mother has told me that I always have, since I was a child. I can never adequately express myself in spoken words... but give me a pen and a paper and I can tell you everything that's wrong with me. I often wish that therapy could work like that. Unfortunately, only my first psychiatrist accepted that kind of therapy. Every other one has desired me to speak. Anyway, the point is, lately, I've been wondering if maybe my purpose is to write it down. Document it. Every thought, every feeling. That way I can let someone know they're not alone. Thinking this makes me think that in the end, there may be a point to my suffering.

I really do believe that having some kind of sense of meaning/purpose is important.

I wish I could be open about my mental illness, and maybe one day I will be. For now, though, I mostly sit in my room and contemplate these things until they drive me mad.