Disillusion

I had just finished a logo, a job that kept me pleasantly busy for a few hours… not even the time to feel any satisfaction because:

• The psychiatrist I (not so easily) found just answered to my email telling me she doesn’t have time for several weeks and to find another. She was very kind, so I can’t even be mad at her; if she doesn’t have time, she doesn’t have time. But I don’t know, my sixth sense told me she was the right one to help me. “My sixth sense.” Fuck it.

• It’s dinnertime, the time when I venture downstairs to the kitchen to quickly grab something to eat, after washing my hands several times, wearing a glove (don’t ask me why), thenother gloves in the kitchen, and disinfecting everything I touch. So I try to touch as little as possible, and I already feel so anxious about the idea—because you never know if you’ve disinfected well enough or your inner enemy will send you back… you know that horrible feeling? Being a slave?

My head is buzzing incessantly. I feel so tired. But at least I get “just a couple of things done” (going to the kitchen and the loo—which seems easy, but isn’t always “just” because, as you might know, it can be very time-consuming and stressful), and then it’s time for bed! The best part of the day: no supposed performances, no crazy dance of compulsions, just sleeping in bed like everyone else (that’s the part that comforts me the most, feeling like everyone else, for a few hours).

And then… another day… another fucking hard and sad day.

Sorry, no happy ending, but like I said, it’s nice to think it’s almost time for bed.

Goodnight.

SLEEP WELL