I don’t know. Do I crave attention? Am I missing something? It grows colder by the day outside, and I don’t like it. I don’t like the cold. To some it would be pleasant and refreshing. I hate any sort of inconvenience whatsoever. I’m terribly sensitive.

I don’t shower anymore. I don’t brush my teeth. I mean, once every four days or so. That’s not gonna cut it. Why have I signed myself up for tooth decay? And psoriasis? What is wrong with me?

It’s just so hard, all these little things. It’s literally difficult to perform these trivial actions. I am such a small person. I used to be strong and sane, neurotypical I guess is the word, and maybe I took it for granted. I don’t know. I cherished life. I don’t think I was spoiled. I used it, exploited every moment. Maybe not every moment.

What I’m saying is my life was on the right course for most of my childhood into early adulthood.

I can’t explain the tennis anomaly with my father. He psychologically abused me, and it was torture. I mean not literally, it’s been much worse with the mental illness, but at times I was so scared of him. I would lose a match and run away and hide so he wouldn’t find me.

I remember that vividly.

What am I supposed to do all day. Everything requires effort. Why is everything so hard for me. I can only hope I regrow some neurons in the right direction and some sort of autopilot (productive autopilot) happens. If I keep exerting effort, shouldn’t that change my brain? The slow and steady changes are often ignored. At least, in my scene. It’s the fast and obvious that everyone pays attention to.

At least I can type.

How useless being able to use a computer would be in another civilization though. Either less or more technologically advanced. Less, well, that’s obvious–you spend all your time outdoors, perhaps working the fields, but, with friends, in a communal society. More technologically advanced, and we all have neural implants or sort of like devices that allow us to interface with computers without peripherals, to overcome the interface barrier that Elon Musk is fighting.

I keep slouching and it’s bad for my back. I can’t help but thing it’s going to damage my back in the long run. I take lots of breaks but man, I’m terrible.

Do you want to know anything about me?

I’m supposed to be studying data science to change my career, on DataCamp. It’s really well formatted for learning, but I just can’t do it.

I feel that I have worked so hard to merely exist. Overcoming a single psychotic episode ought to merit you a purple heart, or the Nobel Prize, something. No one cares about the strife and struggles of the mentally ill.

Interesting thing is I don’t necessarily think existing through disturbing brain times, so to call them, necessarily makes you strong, either. You have survival instinct, it carries you through. What’s strong about that? You DO get hurt, immensely. You’re scarred, tortured. What’s strong about that? Strength would be finding the power to resist. No one is powerful in my eyes. We all struggle. I don’t know if that’s true but I had to put that sentence there, it just fit.

So here I am. I don’t know what I’m doing and I have nowhere to go. So I write. This is so useless. The depression is a little better than yesterday. I’m on the waiting list for some CBT classes my new psychiatrist signed me up for. I shit you not, there’s a quota. Fucked, isn’t it?

My new psychiatrist is a fucking nazi. I mean not quite, but almost there. She’s very strict and nasty. Not really, I mean she’s Asian so you can imagine a personality type from that. Would it necessarily be the correct one, though?

This keyboard is so uncomfortable. I need to replace it.

I’m in so much discomfort, every waking minute of every fucking day.

And I have no one to talk to about it.

I wish…

I don’t know.

I want to be normal again. I want to recognize myself. I want interesting speculation to be in my mind, so I can ponder it. I want to observe the world and see new things. I don’t want this drear all over me. I don’t know how to get out.

I mean, the analytical brain says slowly and surely it will happen.

But who knows, it could take years. That’s years of waiting for fruition, sitting half-dead half-alive. So many songs and works of art about half-life. Nevermind the mere computer game series Half-Life and Half-Life 2. Half-Life 2 was amazing.

Yeah, this keyboard is mighty uncomfortable. I need a new one. Shit.

I just wish I had TASKS that were of REASONABLE DIFFICULTY for ME to ACCOMPLISH. Why is this so hard to ask for.

I need to write more poetry. I don’t see the reason in it anymore, obviously because I’m depressed, but all the medical professionals and artists in my life say of course it will make me feel better. I guess I have to go out on a limb and trust you all on blind faith.

I’m not a very faithful person, so, this will be difficult for me.

Etc.

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