dusty tracks in front of rusted bars

I feel like a caged leopard who has given up on trying to escape and just wishes she could hide back up in the trees where it’s dark and safe.

Or not.  That’s too dramatic.  What I am feeling is much less dramatic than that.  There’s no desperation or urgency. It’s flat. It’s resigned. It has no energy behind it.

I have no motivation. I have no energy.  I had a bit this morning, but it has since left me.  I’m torn between the urge to hide away and to seek out someone to sit with. I want to sit at the beach and watch the water, but that would require changing, then driving there, then walking to the water…  I want it to be dark outside.  I thought of calling someone, but I’m not really in the mood to talk, just sit.  I’m searching for that proximity.

I think writing to De between sessions diminishes what we accomplish in session, so I’m trying out not writing this week.  I had written something that night after our most recent appointment, but nothing since.  I’m not sure I even want to cover that stuff this week.  I think I will take in my art, and we can distract with that on Friday… It’s so far away.  I feel so trapped in the house.  It’s those imaginary bars my head has placed on the windows and doors.  They always show up eventually.  They are heavy and dark and strong, and they take away my desire to do anything (or maybe my lack of desire puts them there?).

I’m trying not to drift into depression again.  I’m trying to have a schedule and social activities planned, but everything takes time and energy and money.  I have the time, but not the money or the energy.  Nothing is free here. Nothing is close. As much as I am not feeling social at the moment, I’m also not into being alone.

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