Posts about, among other things, mental illness, mental health, and recovery.
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 two days ago. They were robbed. They weren’t home. I’m … Continue reading Apathy and burglaries.
This scar marks the place where you were. This wound marks the place where you are. Remarks on marks. Continue reading Remarks on marks.
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. If I was thin, everything would be fine. If I … Continue reading This is depression. Again.
I’m okay with other people’s mucus. In truth, I seek it out. I’m a helper. So, I’m okay with difficult truths, with hard and painful and ugly bits. I’m not good with reciprocity. The facts of existence, I’ll share. The ugly bits underneath, the feelings, not so much. They remain locked up tight. I venture forth occasionally but only after much thought and only after … Continue reading Uncomfortable with mucus.
From Famine to Feast 