10:24 p.m. - 2005-05-18
see the man with the bomb in his hand
when i began this diary i wrote about mel, and now he can't breathe without opening his mouth, and each loud, wheezy breath makes his frail little body heave, with bones sticking out and orange hair flying off every which way. the flow of thoughts from my brain into readable words is almost stopped before i even start, i have to force it out. i am constipated with words, because, i think, of the lovely little white pill i take each morning with regulates the chemicals my brain creates. i'm having one of those times in my life where i am elated by all the good change, and feel almost stagnant when i have to continue on patiently with the old for another ten weeks... how spoiled we become so easily. i'm not addicted to tv anymore, and i think i'm over my insomnia, and i know now how much discipline it takes to make your hair look like you haven't touched it in years. a life lies ahead of me... if foresee more financial irresponsibility and much more love and learning and settledness than i've ever known. my past can touch me from time to time now without causing a mini emotional breakdown, and if that's not progress i don't know what is! and now i must go home, because i can't listen to mel die.
