I think I have writer’s block. We’ll go with that, anyway. I write, I just hate every bit of what I produce. It’s stilted and never what I’m trying to say. The Recycle Bin on my desktop is getting a workout. (A brief pause as I change the channel on the background noise. “Dr. Phil”…… Continue reading 250 words about writer’s block.
I think about the meaning of life regularly. The “why” of existence – my own and in general terms – has always been a puzzle. Why people? Why life? Why headcheese? The largeness of the questions provokes my retreat, often in unhealthy ways. It gets scary out in the dark reaches. I avoided dealing with…… Continue reading My second dose and existentialism.
When you add chronic pain to mental illness, you get a perfect storm of fuckery. It’s a miserable convergence that’s leaving me not only unmoored but unable to figure out how to fix the situation: I’m distracted by the miseries of pain and pins and needles that rip up my body in greater and lesser…… Continue reading Chronic pain and mental illness.
Off the cuff ramblings (or “off the curr,” whichever appeals more). I should’ve realized I was depressed when I drew a chart on the whiteboard to keep help me keep track of my medication. I’ve been struggling to take the pills consistently. That’s kind of adorable: it’s three pills a day I take with meals.…… Continue reading Charts for depression.