It’s late, I’m awake. I could work on homework. Blah. Taking three on-line classes and it’s kinda kicking my butt. I hate writing papers. The end. And I hate memorizing. That’s why I was a good art student. Projects, make pretty things.
Now though, 35, unemployed, back in school. 100 level business class. Reading dry, boring textbooks. Unable to form complete sentences.
Seeing a psychiatrist next week. I need a touchstone. Not that I don’t love it here, but here won’t solve any problems.
So, I would like a family of my own. A nice, comfortable family consisting of a few furry beasts and a man. I don’t want that right now, but at some point in the medium future.
My hands are showing my age. Actually I think they look older than I actually am. My mom had these hands when she was in her late 40s and now I have them 10 years too soon.
Draw a horizontal line. Label it content. Somewhere above the line is manic, way down below is severe depression. I never get above that horizontal line. Let’s say severe depression, the worst is a -10. I average a -2. Right now I’m a -3, sometimes almost -4. Occasionally I get on the positive side.
Used to be, in my early 20s I held onto pain and anger, afraid that if I let go, then I would float away. Now, it’s different. It’s age and experience weighing me down. Oh, and present situations. Now, I float between -2 and slightly over zero. I float wrapped in a blanket. I warm cozy blanket that induces sleep. Want to crawl into bed and stay there.
My bed is my safe place. My happy place. The world does not exist when I am in my bed. A floating raft of safety and calm. Can’t hurt me in my bed. That’s not true, but I like the idea.
Funny that because I can’t fall asleep during normal sleepy hours. Bring on the daytime sleeping. I feel safer falling asleep in the day. My mind isn’t as noisy. At night too many not all together content thing wander through my head. Slightly dustier with a chance of panic.