I miss Word Press. I miss writing. I miss doing pretty much everything, even though I am doing some things. It’s just that it’s all done under the veil of depression which makes me discount the matteringness of it all. On the bright side, I’ve been doing a lot more stretching so should I find myself in a situation where I have to shimmy along … Continue reading Meme connections.
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 I’m not doing long series and sequences. The self-hatred also … Continue reading The depths of despair and sukhasana.
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.
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.
From Famine to Feast 