Is This How You Imagined Your Life, Edna?

This is how I've been feeling lately, with the laundry and the internet and even the thing with the videos (but I use Netflix so there are no late fees piling up–just the average rental price of the same 3 DVDs I've had out for the last two months–and no slow, resentful bike rides to the video shop. Instead I take slow, resentful walks to the supermarket and occasionally the library). Except for the end. I still have feelings left. I spend a lot of time feeling like I'm about to cry and I kind of wish I would because maybe that would be cathartic.

I have many thoughts about what causes me to feel this way but they're disjointed. I've started seeing a therapist again, and I wonder whether it would be useful to write down all of my thoughts and feelings and have my therapist help me organize them in a useful way. I could organize them myself but I'm not sure my arrangement would be useful. But I have no inner strength for anything any more, not even that. I'm almost unable to write this any more right now.

I feel as badly as ever I have, more or less just waiting to die. I can't bring myself to make it happen but part of me wishes I could. I think eventually I will, probably not this time, or the next, but maybe the time after that, or the one after that. I guess I'm not entirely hopeless yet. I don't have any faith that my hope will be realized, but for now I still hope, even though every day shows it to be vain and makes it seem like an obstacle.