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.
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.
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 reaction to the improved mood is to suggest it’s the … Continue reading A good mood, a bad autobiography, and a bookcase.
