Hard

It’s hard to write when I feel okay. 

I had some long, strange dreams about school. I actually feel very little passion about school, though I know that I love it. Is this the medication, making me numb? I always fall out of love quickly, and then back in, and then out of love again. Symptoms of BPD, which I don’t have, but still, not a good sign. Yesterday I took my medication on time, which was stupid because we went to a dance recital. I could barely keep my eyes open, though I liked what I saw. Dance is lovely. I need to move like that, a little at least. I can! When I let go of fear. 

In Edmonton one can graduate high school and find a job that pays $20/h. An in 6 years, be making around $250,000 annually. Amazing. I will perhaps never make $60,000 annually. Oh well. I am not ashamed, only slightly concerned, but it will work out well. This I somehow know. I am not succumbing to cat dander. Hurrah! 

It is very hard to trust that my worries are simply worries, that they are not concrete fact. I need to allow myself to be surprised by life. 

Last night walls were wavy, for a while. My eyes were red and I felt deranged. Medicine indeed, ha. But it was fine. I have little to say and much to draw, it seems. 

About Undecided Pseudonym

A woman who remembers enjoying writing.
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