Entry #7

 On Sunday mornings, I almost feel myself again. I woke up surprisingly early, surprisingly with ease this morning. I made coffee and cleaned the house, I took down most of the winter clothes and re-arranged my wardrobe. Yesterday the chest pain didn't go away until I lied down to sleep, yet I drifted fast and deep. I woke up feeling more like myself, part of the anxiety melted away with the night. I know my job is slowly sipping the life out of me and I know it's unlikely that it will get better. I know that the anxiety will have me back by the throat once tomorrow rolls around and I cursed for not noticing sooner that I am running out of my melatonin pills; since I started taking them, I sleep better on most nights.

  I ate breakfast, then lunch around noon. I have left the covers outside in the sun to be aired. I ate with friends twice this week and this gave me joy. I like having people over and feeding them. There's something about sharing things you made with people that is full-filling. I sat on my arm-chair by the balcony doors, this chair that I have come to love so much, and read. In some ways, in my head, I have created in this weak even though my soul was bleak. On the hours when I fall, I fall hard. And then I get back up by myself, stumbling along the way. I struggle to find peace, yet I recognise it at once when I come across it.

  There's only peace in learning and in standing still. In staying in quiet places, sometimes sunny and sometimes not. There's peace in grievances shared with people who won't judge you for not being well, in the moments when you can speak of your pains without having to be told what you already know, that things could be worse, indeed they could, but that does not make many things better. 

  I hear the rustling of the leaves and I know, that as time goes by the ties I have with this place are being severed one at a time. I am shedding the person I used to be.