Allen

Creator of SadWaveAI sounds.

Latest posts from SadWaveAllen

• Treating The Road Like An Exit

  Feb 08

  LWhen my mind becomes too loud, I walk. Not for fitness, not for productivity, not to reach a destination—but to escape the noise inside my head. I treat the road like an exit sign, glowing quietly when everything else feels like it’s closing in. Walking is the only time my thoughts slow enough for me to breathe without feeling guilty for it. There’s something grounding about putting one foot in front of the other. It gives my body a simple job when my mind is tangled in questions it can’t answer. As the pavement stretches ahead of me, I let my thoughts spill out without trying to fix them. I don’t journal them. I don’t analyze them. I just let them exist, floating beside me as I move forward. Sometimes that’s the only form of peace I can manage. When depression tightens its grip, staying still feels dangerous. My thoughts turn inward, sharp and relentless, replaying memories, doubts, and worst-case scenarios on a loop. Walking interrupts that cycle. The rhythm of my steps becomes a quiet anchor, pulling me back into my body when my mind wants to disappear into itself. Each step feels like a small act of resistance against the weight I carry. On days when Bipolar II brings restless energy or racing ideas, walking helps drain the excess without judgment. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. I don’t have to be “on.” The road doesn’t ask why I’m there or where I’m going. It simply accepts me as I am—messy thoughts, heavy heart, uneven pace. Some days I walk fast, like I’m outrunning something. Other days I move slowly, barely lifting my feet, but I keep going anyway. There are moments when the world feels strangely quiet while I walk. The sound of traffic, the rustle of leaves, distant voices—all of it blends into a background hum that reminds me I’m still part of something outside my head. Even when I feel disconnected from people, the act of walking through the world helps me remember that I still exist in it. I am here. I am moving. I am not stuck, even if it feels that way inside. I don’t pretend that walking fixes everything. It doesn’t erase my disorders or magically clear my thoughts. But it creates space. Space between me and the torment. Space to survive the moment without giving in to it. Sometimes that space is the difference between feeling trapped and feeling like I have a choice. Treating the road like an exit doesn’t mean I’m running away from life. It means I’m choosing to stay. Each walk is a quiet promise to myself: *I will keep going, even if all I can do today is move forward one step at a time.* And for now, that’s enough.

  

• This Is Me Trying

  Feb 08

  Living with depression and Bipolar II disorder is like carrying an invisible weight that shifts without warning. Some days it presses down so hard that even breathing feels like effort. Other days, it loosens just enough to remind me what hope feels like, only to tighten again when I least expect it. From the outside, my life can look calm, functional, even productive—but inside, there’s often a quiet storm I’m constantly learning how to navigate. Depression, for me, isn’t just sadness. It’s numbness, exhaustion, and a heavy fog that dulls everything I once cared about. It steals motivation and replaces it with guilt for not being “strong enough” to push through. Simple tasks can feel overwhelming, and rest doesn’t always restore me. It’s a slow, persistent ache that whispers lies about my worth and my future, even when I know better. Bipolar II adds another layer to this struggle. Hypomania doesn’t always look like chaos—it can look like confidence, creativity, and endless ideas. In those moments, I feel lighter, sharper, almost invincible. But there’s a cost. The crash that follows can be brutal, pulling me back into depression and leaving me to clean up the emotional aftermath. Learning where I end and the disorder begins is something I’m still figuring out. What makes this journey harder is how misunderstood it often is. Because I can still show up, smile, or get things done, my pain is easy to dismiss—sometimes even by myself. There’s pressure to minimize it, to be grateful, to “just think positive.” But mental illness doesn’t work that way. It’s not a mindset problem; it’s a daily negotiation between my brain, my body, and my will to keep going. I’m starting this blog as a place to be honest—without pretending I have everything figured out. This is where I’ll share my experiences, my setbacks, my small wins, and the quiet truths that don’t always fit into conversations. If you’re here because you’re struggling too, I hope this space reminds you that you’re not alone. And if nothing else, I hope it proves that even in the middle of the fight, your story is still worth telling. 🤍