Newest addition to the landlady’s garden ornament collection; he glows at night.
Been a period of struggle, rapid cycling, pain, loneliness, regret, sorrow. What usually makes up my life. Let go of the palatable, visible hope again. What hides/resides deep inside – I don’t know its’ been evicted yet. I know, I know. That’s depression talking. I’m still here my therapist says, so there is some sparkle, some tiny flame that won’t extinguish just yet.
Wakeful nights – 48 hour shifts of eyes wide open. Other nights, waking with my head pressed against the keyboard, and a line of ds or ks running for screen after screen. Not the nervous energy maniac awake. Therapy sessions about how the drugs don’t work, not about fixing, or trying to fix, what is wrong. So much wrong, with my body and mind, held together by promises, dreams, staples, duct tape, and spirit gum.
There is a song in the musical Annie called Tomorrow – about how hopeful tomorrow will be “the sun will shine tomorrow.” I have a tomorrow mantra too, tomorrow I will start the diet, mop the floor, do some gardening, exercise, write that proposal (again), and the list goes from the mundane to the phantasmagorical. Not all those things in one day, just the idea that tomorrow is when my life begins again. Then it’s tomorrow, and I don’t. Or, to paraphrase a 1950s or 1960s song, “Let’s forget about tomorrow, for tomorrow never comes.”
It’s 12:34, so it’s tomorrow. “What won’t I accomplish today,” she wonders looking at the list that gives her angst. “At least I stocked up on brightly colour post it notes; these are pretty when ignoring them.”