I appreciate your life. I'm going to tear a page from my journal for you:
the agonizing muttering in my head settled on singing scat lyrics in a lounge voice. "Scrooty, oh scooty ski-bop." It's only mildly amusing when you actually have to listen to it.
Everything adults are supposed to do seemed childish to me, so I moved back in with my parents and hid from the world. In a way, it makes me the most adult.
I haven't been taking my pills. I haven't decided whether I will again. I don't know how to talk with my doctor anymore. I lost my will to speak when he inferred that I was delusional in front of my parents.
I went insane for a while. Some of it was from the doctors I dealt with putting me on all sorts of drugs. Some of it was me feeling like the world had passed me by and I would be forgotten forever. Things like that. Catastrophic psyche shattering.
I don't remember how long my book was when I decided I'd finished it. I want it to be longer but I don't have the strength to revisit it. It's just sitting in a text file on my laptop... wherever my laptop is. I haven't opened it since last November or so.
Part of me feels like letting everyone do whatever and just hiding out of sight. Part of me is very frail and fragile. Part of me is living a pathetic existence. Part of me is fine with that.
I feel good about some things. Other things, not so much. Overall, average. Still confused. Feel unrested.