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. …

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Uncomfortable with mucus.

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 …

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A good mood, a bad autobiography, and a bookcase.

I had a thought but then I lost it. I’d look for it but that would require challenging the inertia depression brings to my reality. Except inertia has been in abeyance for the last few days. I’ve been productive. I’ve been in an oddly good mood. These two things are probably not unconnected. My anxiety’s …

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Alone in the crowd.

I’m rarely lonely when alone. I’m often lonely around other people. It’s the connection. It’s the lack. I feel disconnected from the people around me, even when they’re family and friends. It’s like I’m surrounded by a bubble that prevents me from reaching and being reached. It’s like we function on parallel but different, non-intersecting …

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