After last week's excursion, a dear, wonderful old friend came to stay with us for the weekend-to-tuesday, and it was so lovely to see him that I forgot how depressed I was. Score, right? Yes. But it's all back, beginning with the day he left and, since then, has been digging it's claws deeper and deeper into my skin. I don't like feeling this way. I certainly don't like finding my cheeks to be tear stained without my knowledge. That's a bunch of bullshit.
I'm just...not very happy. With my body, with my mind, with my social "life", with my sex "life" and the rest of my ridiculous excuse for a life.
Wait, wait... I'm delving into self-pity land, aren't I? Yes, I think I am.
I want the freedom to do whatever I'd like to do with no limitations. Ten years ago, that "whatever" would have been drinking & drugging until I stopped breathing. Twenty years ago, it would have been cutting and pilling until I stopped breathing. Now, however, I'd just like to go out and get some sunshine without risking another fall, or another i.b.s. attack, or another bruised feeling in my skin.
Whatever, right? Right. So... the hub is awake, which means our day is beginning. I'll try to be more cheerful, but it's hard sometimes.
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