This is my depression journal. I’m starting this journal at a quarter to 5 pm on December 13 because I don’t know what else to do with myself. That’s typically how things are going with me—and this has been the case for the entire 28.5 years of my life. It’s also typical for me to journal when I’m depressed and don’t know what else to do with myself. So that means I’ve been doing a lot of journaling—a lot of shitty journaling. I currently have about a dozen books that I filled up with my hand-written journal-entries; tacky, decorated, bound stationary journals that date back to middle school. They’re in a torn pillow case in the trunk of my car. I figure they’re most secure there. Those journals are basically my depression journals as well, because I’m always depressed, and I almost always journal to a painstaking degree about the nuances of my depression . . . Continue reading
I’ll begin by letting you know that it’s 2 in the morning. That, in itself, may be all you need to know about me.
But I’ll continue. Continue reading