Chronic feelings of emptiness. This persists, despite the medication. The medication is all I have, at this junction. My mind isn’t working. I’m too scared to work on my non-fiction submission, because I know it isn’t very strong. It has potential. But it’s rough and ends abruptly. I still can’t do the dishes. It’s been weeks. I need to write a piece about my journey with the dishes. The inability to clean. Symptoms. Chapters. We don’t gain anything from being afraid. What can fear teach us? What can I learn from this? Days just keep going by, with responsibilities and duties mounting,and my ability seems to only fade. I’m getting very comfortable in my little den, and even crave to be there at times. In the dark, watching Friends, munching on chips or something else. Ice cream. I want ice cream. I want time away from this gleaming screen. I want structure and purpose. I have to make those on my own. It astounds me, how much I really have to do on my own. I love picking at my skin. The grease, the dead cells, accumulating under my finger tips. I want ice cream. I want comfort. I want a smaller waist line. Somehow that isn’t compatible with ice cream. I’m so much smarter than the “thin is best” brainwashing we go through. How do I un-brainwash? 20 minutes left in this Second Cup. I’ll be home in almost a month. Uh, I’m a Facebook addict, a real Facebook addict. $300 to fly from Toronto to Vancouver. I’m worried about all the packing I have to do. I need to remember that it’s actually quite simple, and that I can do it. I can do anything. I want to write non-fiction, but I don’t feel like I have it in me. I don’t know. I really want to get into this program. Messaging people on Facebook, desperate for human contact. 

About Undecided Pseudonym

A woman who remembers enjoying writing.
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