Miserable Creativity


20 mg Prozac (daily) and 0.25 mg Xanax (as needed).

40 mg Prozac (daily) and 0.25 mg Xanax (as needed).

60 mg Prozac (daily) an 0.25 mg Xanax (as needed).

80 mg prozac (daily) and 0.25 mg Xanax (as needed).

40 mg Prozac (daily) and 0.5 mg Xanax (as needed)


Physical journal.

Notepad digital ramblings.

Dropbox journal.

Google Drive journal.




Talking transparently to everyone I choose to have in my life.

Cutting out things that cause unnecessary stress.  (I fondly refer to this as removing stress tumors).

Forcing myself to leave the apartment to go to appointments and do things.

Making plans with friends and then almost instantaneously denying the ugly face of impossible loneliness that will creep up if I cancel and then get so caught up in catastrophic consequences that will never happen, even if they’ve happened in the past.

Cancel plans.

Feel awful.

Regret cancelling but also feel an overwhelming sense of calm upon deciding to stay in.

Avoid perceived dangerous situations.

Situations where I might throw up (this has happened more than once in public, I thought i had a sensitive stomach but I’m thinking now perhaps I get so anxious that my body doesn’t know what to do and it violently evacuates everything until I am dry heaving and drained and exhausted).  It’s exhausting to live here in this long-term limbo of indecision.

I have a knack for remembering the bad times.  They overshadow the good. 

The good seems fleeting, taunting me.

Look at all these people functioning normally and having jobs.

I should get a job.

Yes, I need a job.

I need a job to support myself in this society of unfair distribution.

Work hard, you’ll get a good-paying job and the world is your oyster and blah blah blah.

I did the things.  

I got the degree(s).

I accomplished things for the sake of accomplishment and the hope that nobody would know how crippled I felt inside every waking moment.  

I used to eat my feelings.  Or restrict them.  Or exercise them out of self-hatred.

I developed an eating disorder.  

I don’t remember it happening.  It crept on slowly but has been a frustrating companion for the past 20 years.

I can’t leave my apartment without an all-encompassing feeling of dread.

When I leave I am uncomfortable the ENTIRE time.

I want to run but instead I muster up enough courage to talk to everyone.

It seems almost calming.

I talk too fast.

My thoughts race.

How long has it been since I’ve talked to a person and gotten out of my own head?

Too long, probably.

Alas, here I am.  10 in the morning and I’m here on a blog I created over 2 years ago and only updated once on a particularly bad day that I read “Body for Life” and was in the midst of pure self hatred and hopelessness and indecision and just wanted something to stick.  I wanted a habit that was good for me that I could be proud of.  I wanted to write it all out.  But it’s hard to get hold of the feelings, the emotions, the world I live in constantly is rapidly spinning and spinning and I have to hold on for dear life while I try not to let it completely overwhelm me.  

I’ve been drawing.  I’ve been creating things.  Writing little stories and songs and jingles here and there.

I wrote 24 songs in the span of 3 days while coming down off of Prozac.

I also threw up water and bile for about 10 hours for an entire evening and doubted my ability to ever be a functioning member of society.

Is that what I even want? I don’t think so.  

I woke up and threw up again. 

I’ve never in my life felt like I belonged anywhere.

Constantly drifting.

My permanent address is so fleeting it’s almost funny.


Like so many things, it’s temporary.

The decisions can never be final.

There is no final answer.

I don’t know anything and I’m scared.

I don’t know anything and I’m enlightened.

It’s paradoxical, it’s powerful.

I thought I knew so much about everything.

Now I’m paralyzed, but most people don’t see it.  

Being by myself with my thoughts is hard enough to deal with, put any single responsibility on top of that and I emotionally bleed to death.


Peace, Love, and Kittens,





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