Another night.  It doesn’t seem to ever let up.

At work, to keep my mood up, I typed my emails standing up.

At home, there are no such distractions.  Music is a nuisance.  TV can only distract me for so long.  I would read, because that would do it, but—I don’t know.  I can’t keep my focus.  I can’t get past a sentence.  I can’t get past a word—sometimes.  My mind halts and jumps and trips and falls back.  I keep it together at work because I have to.  That’s money.  I need that.  And I have a drive to impress, a relentless drive to accomplish and achieve above and beyond those around me.  I have to prove that I’m as smart as I think I am.  I have to prove that I can work smarter, faster than them.  If I don’t, if I can’t, then I’m a failure—even if I’ve proven to just be normal.

To me, normal is failure.  I don’t want to be normal.  There is no part of my life that I will accept as normal.  The very word comes out as a scoff with a hint of bile behind it.  Normal people seem so pathetic, like content impotents.  They might as well not have the organ that could furnish their lives with such pleasure.  Mental eunichs.

See?  My focus is lost.  I’ve strayed from the point, a lousy habit I feel has begun to become a staple of my posts.  It’s not something I’m happy about, this struggle for coherency.  I place such value on words.  I see nuance in the very shape of them.  Yet lately, I’m—stuttering.  Yes.  I get stuck on an idea, and I beat it to death until you tire of it, and I tire of it, and my sentences tire of it, too.  I perceive the flow is like that of a broken faucet: inconsistent, annoying, unsatisfying.

I want to tell myself it’s my depression talking, but I can’t tell the difference anymore between what’s real and what’s in my head.  It all sounds so damn plausible, so convincing.  My intelligence, my obsessive tendencies, and my ego are playing tricks on me.

The Clonazepam quells my anxiety.  What of the insanity I fear?  What of the memories I recall too well?  Is there a drug for that?

Marijuana, but it’s illegal.  So I’ll just keep crying into my boyfriend’s arms.

Whatever.  I’m tired.  Just as I think I’ve begun to deal with my pain, more rises to the surface.  I see no end to this: crying uncontrollably into a pillow, feeling exactly what I felt when he whispered to me.  Can you imagine what it feels like to be anally raped so violently, every stroke makes you wonder if your entrails can come out that way?

Just another night.