Eating Doubts

nighttime. Awake.  In my head eating doubts. Old shit new shit batshit. Reading a book that at times connects and gives me ideas, thoughts of 180 (degree) actions. It occurs that the connections are for the longings for difference. This long death of a life I am living. And worse, killing those who espouse love for me. Killing their love. Killing their want of life. Certainly draining my own away. It falls away. Little pieces dropping here and there. Feeling empty, the kind of empty I generally fill with food or shopping or playings spider, for hours. On that odd occasion I complete the game it doesn't matter. That strikes me as evidence that I will never get better. I've not the courage to find and do what I must for any chance of happiness. I am afraid if I go where I need to , the hurt I create would be beyond repair. A hurt of the undeserving. The ones who are juat trying to be happy, be content. I am not content. I am not on the right path unless I have somehow strung a line with a carabiner so at minimim I'm riding a long still in touch. I am meant to be me - an artist I think, but at root, me. Sometimes I feel endlessly assailed by the outflow of others sometimes I ponder my eerie disconnect. An inneffectual, life. I consume and mostly just excrete.

permeation of anxiety

not doing much, did reconnect with my psychologist, which was a relief to detox some of my most recent self-inflictions. Was quite spent upon my return home from the eastern adventures. Dreams continue to be vibrant and enticing. I wish I had a way to record them audio visually, I think it would be quite interesting. There is a great deal of art, sci-fi entwined with people from my past and present, situations reminiscent of past and permeation of anxiety. I hope to continue ith massage and neuropsych soon.

The Danger of Dreams

can't think of anyone I want to talk to, the guilt of talking when it's all down is too much most of the time, but I need to talk so I'll talk to myself, hopefully without too much harsh judgment, I'm fucking tired of being tired, I hate being unhappy, I'm full of hate, I feel hatred when i hear people talk about focusing on the positive, what's the point when i have no sincere enjoyment of fucking anything? I'm  sick  of it all, tired, tired.
my dreams are fricking amazing and all i want to do is stay in them, that to me is dangerous and completely unrealistic cause if I was dead I don't think I would be dreaming anymore. I think tho that I am trying to dream harder and harder and to stay there, when I reach this deep sleep and am awakened mostly what I feel is resentment and disappointment.

Seeping Dreams

why do I remain haunted by stupid shit that happened over a decade ago? These aren't even life threatening or harmful to anyone, but they were missed opportunities, places perhaps where my fears limited me, or I allowed them to. doomed to live an insignificant life. Why am I so obsessed with being famous? Would it mean I was worthy ? Is that it? Why cannot i just be happy with what I have, feel satisfied with what I have accomplished? What haunts is a feeling of not living up to my potential, a familiar experience to many I imagine. Dreams lost, drained away, seepage into the surrounding soil of our lives detritus.

Will

Pondering the spirit and it's sublime companion hope. Sublime because hope is a slippery slope, it can sustain you with crumbs and is evil.
The spirit is independent of the external I believe, when all has been said and done to a person it is the internal that decides the next course of action.
Belief in oneself, reliance, faith in whatever internal strengths remain after all has been said and done.
Without this, there is no hope. I think in order to sustain my will to live, this internal will must need exist independently of anything and everything else, it must not be subject to the external. I must  be able to feed my will and take this nourishment, for me to survive, for me to prosper. When I look around the world and all the things being done to people, to animals, to the earth herself, I cannot but believe anything else.
If my spirit is resilient, I will abide.
If my spirit is fragile, it is only a matter of time.

First Wasp Sting of the Season...plus a dying bird

Lamp shade I made of approx 420 cable ties (aka zap straps)

"I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink. I'm so-o-o ti-i-ired my mind is on the blink"

Quick someone get me some cheese!

Just writing for writing's sake. Vulnerable today: bad weather, headache and nursing my first wasp sting of the season. Hurray for everything!

I think it's a case of a post-upward trend after so long in melancholia that a return to the disconsolate stuff feels logarithmically worse. Did I mention I loved math??

Walking a neighbour's dog who is temporarily out of commission - er the neighbour, not the dog - and the dog mangled a wee baby towhee. It was gasping for breath, all of its interiors now exteriors and I couldn't bring myself to put it out of its misery. I felt very cowardly. And a friend told me a profound story about the importance of struggle for our growth and I cried and cried.

So all in all an abstruse kind of morning. (I was just reading a blurb that encouraged writers to use more synonyms for depressed - sign me up!).

So not much going on, preparing to drive east for visiting family and traveling to the Netherlands thrown in, this will be nice. I am only leery about being away from home for so long. I expect we shall be grateful upon our return for what we have together.

I look forward to feeling more gracious.

Smacking of Imperialism

Been quite a while and as per usual, not feeling well, feeling low, that looking at myself from a long distance low that I cannot explain but I guess must accept in the moment and hope it passes, when I have felt like this previously and felt similarly stymied, writing seems to have unearthed, unplugged, transformed the latency. It's frustrating (except that frustration is a powerful feeling and I do not feel any commensurate deep feeling, more frozen, stagnation, paralysis). I have completed 8 sessions of neurofeedback and my before and after qEEGs are promising aka they show improvement but I was wondering a couple things. One: I have not participated in any talk therapy for awhile and it is import to talk  and/or express my thoughts feelers in some fashion, this could account for my current state and two: perhaps it's all part of the peri-menopausal party I seemed to have inadvertently become embroiled in. My menses are powerful strong, heavy, it's bloodletting on a cult-level, surely enough volcanoes have been appeased by now?

Having a voice is crucial to well-being, I believe this. I simply have not been voicing my voice I guess. This passive therapy is perhaps too passive. I feel no sense of accomplishment. No sense of taking/asserting my power. It is a bit bewildering although I do believe the science is sound on an - ironically- intuitive and empirical (hate the word though - it smacks of , oh I don't know, imperialism!) level.

Blah.