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. …
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 …
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 …
Continue reading A good mood, a bad autobiography, and a bookcase.
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 …
Gone fishing. Or fishin’. I’m never sure. The point is, I’m going. Not fishing. I don’t fish. I’m down with lazily floating on a lake in the sunshine, assuming the sun ever arrives for more than a fifteen-minute window on the West Coast this year, but catching and killing something is far outside my comfort …
