seven

Been noticing classic signs of depression and anxiety. Anx: I seem to have stress tummy again. Trying to isolate/identify possible external causes but things seem otherwise the same so yeah. I think it might be stress about moving back into the house in Toronto. Or leaving my friends andcetera. Dep: am bored. Restless. Search for an hour for something to watch or listen to and start many, abandon, nothing holds or really engages my attention to begin with. Torpor. But this from someone who yesterday a) left the house dressed well with makeup and b) went to a bookstore and then cafe and then even talked briefly to a guy who played banjo in said cafe and then c) went to last minute meet up at late at night early morning having to dress and makeup again. But I feel it as a form of the wandering. The empty, the lonely, the dark streets at night to pass the time to pass the time. And almost 30.

Read an old journal from high school, the June before university. The same shit as now: I feel bad. This is my theory as to why I feel bad. Maybe it'll get better. I think maybe I'm getting better. Well, I feel shitty again. This is my new theory. Why am I so...? Look, my childhood. Can't stop thinking about x. I hate myself. Want to die. Feeling a little better. I should do x. X will solve some but not all problems. It will or will not get better, probably soon. I hope. I give up.

Only, I could wake up early then, and also concentrate on tasks. So it seems like I've gone backwards in ten years but I can't think that way. Things seem dark. Also I beat myself up a lot in that journal. As I still do. I wonder why.

Oh and bingeing again. The sly way. But swallowing too much. During the day and at night. Every day. Feels desperate. I'm worried.

six

Hey it's almost three years later.

So the mistake I always seem to make is thinking that I have any control in my mental wellbeing. I've been eating healthy, feeling okay for a couple weeks. It's spring, there's more light. Been looking forward to wearing some new warmer weather clothes, sandals, shopping, etc. Been going to the farmer's market the past 4(?) weeks every Tuesday. It's Tuesday today and I am just so fucking sick and tired. I want to sleep all day. Fuck you, depression. No, seriously, fuck you.

So am I even bipolar anymore? Doc doesn't think so. Misdiagnosis. 8 years of it. Well, christ.

I learned this year that nobody knows anything about anything. Mental health-wise specifically but in lots of other places. It's not so much the doctors and scientists, maybe their only fault is pretending they do actually know what's going on. Truth is that things are so big, so much bigger and bigger than we think. Just balloons inside balloons big big sky cosmos big. And so so many smalls in the big, that all we have are best guesses.

Current best guess on my head: atypical depression (treatment resistant), ADHD. Fun fun fun in the sun!

It's just that it's been so long - 13 years - so WTF, you know?

Can't write.
Can't sleep.
Can't wake up.
Can't hold a job.
No consistency (see market day above).
Unreliable (been working/unable to work on a resume for L for weeks).
Can't concentrate.
Can't read.
Can't can't can't cannot cannot.

Oh, there are things I can do. And I do them. And I have the structure of a life, the supports. Semi-comfort. Love. I mean, Amen! Like really. But not good enough.

Constant beating of myself up. Can I ever not be a liability, something to be carried? Capital S Someone? Up-fucking-hill, you know? Just always.

five

Did you know that when I was a little girl, a cute curly-haired kid in the Minnie Mouse costume, that even then I had a Very Bad Thing inside my head? That it's been there this whole time? Did you know that someone can be sick forever? That it's not you? That you can go on with your day?

four

If I stare at the blue light long enough it turns red. Light therapy. I can feel the SAD today. I felt it yesterday, too. Which was why I spent the day trying to reach out to people on facebook, and why I got so upset when they didn't reach back. But it's good, the reaching out. Better than isolating, which I feel like doing today. Today I want to go buy some junk food and eat and watch a movie and sleep. But I'm past that now. I mean, I've progressed... haven't I? Last night when L was falling asleep I cried. I couldn't identify why (though I blamed it on certain things, just to try them on to see if they were it, and to try to be concrete, so L would understand). But it always comes back to sickness. No matter how happy I should be or how much progress I make, it's still there. So I sit, in front of this obnoxious blue light, hoping desperately that it'll keep the sickness at bay, the thing inside, which I can't reach or feel or smell or excise or bargain with. Fuck.

the blue of cloud of cry

of speckled eyes of light

the shine of flight

i crime i kite i dime i dive

the speckled light the cloud

the bright of eyes the cry

i wind and wind and wind

and wind

and wind and wind and wind.

three

So I saw Tao Lin read a few days ago.

I attended a Tao Lin reading a few days ago.

Yes, that's the better sentence.

...And I was impressed. I think he's a straight-shooter, and that people don't like that. Especially literary people. I won't use the H-word. I think that because he's young and he draws little doodles and talks about hamsters, people expect him to be fun and funny. And it's not that he isn't, it's just not the look-what-I-can-do, spectacular sort of fun and funny.

This is what happened: he showed up, asked if it was okay to put his backpack on a particular chair (of course it was), refused most hospitalities provided by the establishment (beer, etc.), went "backstage" (washroom? Storage? It's a book store.) for fifteen minutes or so. Then he was introduced, went on stage and announced that after the reading there would be a Q & A session, and then he would sign books. Unusual for a book store reading, but pleasantly straightforward.

Tao Lin is a smart guy. Thoughtful and well-read. He answered questions impeccably, in that his answers were succinct and honest. "Do you prefer writing prose or poetry?" My question. I wanted to know. "I like both. It depends on the day." I got my answer. But do you know how rare and amazing an exchange like that is? When someone can ask a simple question and get a direct answer? That's what his writing is like, and why I like his writing. Critics have called him a "trickster," a "hustler." Fans want in on the Tao Lin awe-stravaganza. But he's just a guy. No, seriously. He's just a guy who's smart enough to self-promote and create buzz about himself and his books, smart enough to keep a distance from the Tao-Lin-giant-beach-ball being tossed around by the adoring and not-so-adoring public that so desperately wants to see its own reflection in his eyes.

I like Tao Lin, and that's enough, for me. I bought his book, and I think that's enough, for him.

See?

two

So I have this dream this morning that I save my baby-self from being hit by a car. Me one (adult) is sitting with me two (baby) on a black-top driveway which may have belonged to my real life growing-up house. The car comes towards us and I hug me two close to my chest and lie with my body between her and the car. Like this: o)

Me two had white, white hair. But my hair, the hair in the pictures of me as a child, curly and wispy. I suppose the good thing is I saved her. And, really, I know what this is all about anyway. The white hair, the old house [pardon me, there are onion fumes drifting into the room, from the kitchen where L is lovelily preparing dinner for the both of us. Rub, rub. Blink.], the whole protection thing.

It just occurred to me that the onion is more real than the dream. It never used to be. The healing continues.

It's this Catcher in the Rye thing. This person-in-pain wants to save others-in-pain thing. I need to be the little o in my illustration. I also need to be the parenthesis.

The holder and the being-held.

The lover and the loved.

The wounded and the wound.

Now I'm both.

one

It's raining. How's that for a start? I feel gummy. In need of. I wonder how it got so damned scary, this being my real life. So dramatic, this writing business, but... (something like "power through"). I never finish my sentences. I've noticed that. Especially with L. Especially with L. These fonts are terrible, I grumble. Concrete: cramps and soya sauce. Crocheted coasters with so many mistakes and my unwillingness to make new ones because that would be pretending there were no mistakes to begin with. And that was how the coasters were made: to begin with. Also: crumbs on the desk, and ashes. Unspecified. The chipped thumbnail, the chocolate deep in the crease between the sides of my nails and the skin. A result of late-night desserting and morning rush-job coats of clear polish. I don't mind. I finally believe that flaws add character. When I was younger I took a sewing class. We made teddy bears, or at least I did. The teacher sewed on the eyes of mine. One was crooked or far-awayer or just obviously not good enough for my teddy bear, the one I had made, perfectly, except for this. She had said it added character. This meant: I don't get paid enough to fix it. I'm tired and I have more important projects. You're a child, it's a bear, get over it. And she was right, for the most part.

Suffering made me gentler. Living life, working, is making me harder and more bitter. I don't like myself recently. Did I tell you I got a woman fired? She was in my way. I have her job now. Flash: you Peter Keating! You manipulator! Who are you, your father? I went there. I'm so not going there today.

It's raining. How's that for a middle? I used to have fantasies about men who loved me for my problem-solving skills. As in, I've never felt this way before. None of my other girlfriends took the time and care to help me realize that I don't want to teach writing, I just want to write! Also, the blowjobs are phenomenal!

This is the hard part. I hate this rambling, this effort for stuff I can't even use. I hate that all I could think of was the word stuff in the previous sentence. What happened to vocab? I need to read more. There's an issue of SubTerrain on top of the heater in the bathroom. Don't tell the editors I've been reading it in the bathroom. I read The New Yorker in there too, if that classes it up for you. And now I think I've reached the bottom of my thoughts, for now.