Apathy and burglaries.

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 …

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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. …

Continue reading This is depression. Again.

Perfectionism, a garage door, and some compulsivity.

My garage door had some work done. The other doors are going to talk – it looks five years younger, all shiny with a lustrous dark brown coat. New paint. The TLC was overdue. I’ve lived here for twelve years and prior to last week, the only maintenance the door received was an occasional drive-by …

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