I just want to not be me.

I waste at least an hour every day lying in bed. Then I waste time pacing. I waste time thinking. I waste time being quiet and not saying anything because I'm afraid I'll stutter.

Sometimes when you open a book, time stops.

I've had good moments scattered since then, times when I thought I was better, but that was the last day I felt triumphant.

So why am I depressed? That's the million-dollar question, baby, the Tootsie Roll question; not even the owl knows the answer to that one. I don't know either. All I know is the chronology.

I don't owe people anything, and I don't have to talk to them any more than I feel I need to.

The Shift hasn't happened yet, maybe it never will, but sometimes-just enough times to give me hope-my brain jars back into where it's supposed to be.