Journaling Day 7


Cried too much to make phone calls. Made calendar and tumblr blog. Wrote bad poetry. Participated in 3 prompts. Wish I could change. Wish I could stop crying. Wish I could write again. Wish.


Journaling Day 6; lots of swearing


I’ve been so unstable on the drugs, and my body so in revolt, that I’m pacing myself off them. Anti-depressants don’t work and there is a subset that the mood stabilizers don’t work for either.  The panic attacks are relentless right now – and I’m not getting any meds for that – I might get addicted they say. Fuck. I took Xanax for years just fine. Stopped them just fine. Now quit messing with the stuff that makes me a zombie and give me back my Xanax. I could cope. This stuff. I can’t even stay awake so that’s how I cope.

I’m so tired of doctors telling me that it’s my fault I don’t get stable – like I purposely mess with my meds so I don’t. Chaos and pain may be my comfort zone, but I can’t even begin to move beyond it til something either steadies me out or I go clean and deal with it that way. Why feel like shit with a bunch of drugs fucking up  when no drugs makes you feel not much worse.

I just deleted several paragraphs because I’m not ready to be that publically honest yet – if this is going to work, I’m going to have to do this privately. I don’t know if anyone would be interested in getting passwords to my private journal – I’m not sure I could even give them out. Guess there has to be two journals – the surface one and the deeper, darker one. I’ll let some of the dark stuff up sometimes, maybe.

Pain is rising – got to stop typing – makes my jaw worse. My moist heat treatment heating pad came today so I can start doing my home exercises while I wait to see if the new health insurance will allow physical therapy on my head and neck muscular structures. The pain is really wearing me down into the depression abyss.


The Mighty 30 day challenge



my mighty month challenge on face book

article about the challenge


I’m not good at challenges – I realize that I stress out and the few words I have left disappear. That’s one of the reasons I’m skipping JusJoJan on LindaGHill’s blog

I’m not good at journaling – My feelings come out in my poetry (which I rarely write now) and in my prose (which I feel is dreck)

So why even consider this?

If I don’t, I will stop writing. Writing has been my life-line; my hope; my outlet; my distraction. To give it up, is to give in. To the depression demons who mock my efforts as farce.

So for now, until I create a separate journaling space, what better place that in a darkened room inside a darkened house. If I’m to share my personal feelings, best do it in the dark by candle light.

This wouldn’t be pretty; I’m in one of my deep weepy depressions were all the voices are howling. Each day is a struggle; my sword arm is weary, and my shield is all battered and beaten in.

I can’t write and post anymore. The voices, often with tidbits of right in them, have convinced me others are the wordsmiths. Even the novelettes I’m writing, and planning are out of my scale. Each hair I lost – 3/4 of my hair – was an word, or an idea, or a way of expressing myself or a character. The “surprisingly early entropy” of my brain cells has swallowed up creativity, flow.

If writing hadn’t meant so much to me, if it wasn’t my last hope at achieving sometime, then I wouldn’t go on so. But my life has been never hope or dream, for the more you do, the less likely it will happen. Another kick in the gut when I realized that I really can’t write. Can’t pull together a story that’s only 10, to 15,000 words long. Mine are already longer but no amount of editing will turn them from make nos.

So I’ll try to journal – where no one will read (like they read now, ha) and I can vomit on the page. My days are full of self-recriminations, regret, remorse, laundry, trips to the drug or grocery store, and once photography and writing. My photo editing program doesn’t do what I wanted it to, and I stopped being able to take a good picture, and now I can’t write.

There, even before the 1st, one whole confessional journal entry.