Lives of Quiet Desperation

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21 August 1999 – Diary

Feeling much better this morning. Opened my door, saw the list of things I need to do for my life to get going again. It’s a mile high.

Closed the door and went back in bed.

I think I’ll get up tomorrow.

22 August 1999 – Diary

Feeling much better this morning than yesterday. Was able to make it to the pool for the first time in nearly a month. Only did half as many lengths as usual, but the exercise makes me feel much better. In addition, the feeling that I am able to take some control of my life again has lifted my spirits.

However I only made it to the pool because I want to look good for C.. I worry a little about using this as my reason for starting back exercise because it has the potential for my becoming dependent on C.. Not a good thing in a relationship – it causes unnecessary strain. Not to mention that it stings my independence to have to use a crutch to get back to exercise. I should have enough self discipline to just start up. But alas, I don’t, and much as I dislike the situation, I’d rather get the exercise.

23 August 1999 – Diary

This has got to be the worst I have felt since I disappeared in 1997. I’m failing so soon after I thought I had got it right. The way I lived my life in June and early July was the way I wanted to live my life. And now this.

Objectively what I am now going through is no worse than my January 99 episode. It’s really how I am reacting to it and how much worse it compares to how good (good good, not manic good) I was feeling in June.

I’m also the closest I’ve been to giving up since I tried killing myself in 1997. If I could just shut down completely I would, but I get hungry and people keep intruding. I’m just tired of trying ways to survive and watching them fail. I’m also tired of not being sure of what works and what doesn’t. And I’m lonely of not having someone to talk with, to just be an ear for me.

What I really feel like doing is spending two hours hiking to Paria beach then settling myself crosslegged into the sand and remaining there until the sun’s glare makes me blind and all I can hear ever again is the roar of the waves and I become just one more piece of driftwood upon the sand.

People keep on coming into my house to try to fix things – clean the sink, iron my clothes. But I keep on thinking how blind they are. The house isn’t the problem. I want to yell at them, “Don’t fix the house, fix me!”

Fix me