The depths of despair and sukhasana.

I’m having a very bad day. I’m hearing that in Lisa Simpson’s voice and the humour is a nice relief from the intermittent crying over the futility and pointlessness of my life. I’m bored by my despair and its persistence. Welcome back, yoga. I’m doing my practice wrong, of course. Depression prevents sustained attention so …

Continue reading The depths of despair and sukhasana.

Apathy and burglaries.

It’s not that I’m not writing. It’s that I hate everything I write. No matter where I start, the efforts turn into whiny, self-indulgent, depressed meanderings sweetened with a touch of nihilism. It may be what I feel but it’s also boring. Luckily, I have a new emotion: rage. My parents’ home was broken into …

Continue reading Apathy and burglaries.

This is depression. Again.

I can’t sleep. I can’t write. Except, of course, I am writing. And I sleep some. Fits and starts. Fifteen minutes here, two hours there. Awake in-between. Awake so often. I have permanent bags under my eyes, something the self-loathing of the eating disorder loves to latch on to. It’s because I’m fat, of course. …

Continue reading This is depression. Again.