“A vagabond existence is fine until the age of forty,” said the watchman. “After that, one needs a permanent address to stop the decline.
I just cooked dinner, had a few bites and then fed it to the dogs.
Get bipolar, experience the bottom falling out of your world.
Take lithium, experience the world falling out of your bottom.
I keep shedding my own skin briefly, looking at myself from the outside and asking the question I least want answered. How the hell did I get here? Here living alone on the coast, here driving my neighbour’s daughter to visit her in rehab, here lying every day that I am ohhhh kay. I’m not ok. But it’s tricky. I have to be kind of ok, because I promised my dogs I wouldn’t let them down (too much). I get up and do sane and sensible stuff and I walk my dogs on the beach and from time to time I am a little bit sociable. And every day I think I want to die and for the first time ever, the thought scares me a bit.
Food and cigarettes are no longer enjoyable, but reading is still there and reliable.
“That’s all right,” she said. “We all try to camouflage the monotony. But it takes a lot of energy. To insist on being special all the time. When we’re so much like one another anyway. Our triumphs are the same. Our pain. Try for a moment to feel what relief there is in the ordinary.”