Blog Entry

The blackness is closing in again. The edges have been dark for about a week or two now, but the edges are getting closer and closer together. I hate this black place; I know it is of my own making.

I don't know what made the dark come this time. I could probably think up lots of reasons. None of them would be true. The darkness comes from inside and works out, not the other way around. The reasons I could possibly list are all external and so of no consequence.

Today is another beautiful sunny day. The sky is clear blue – cerulean. I like that word. It's not like there is no liking or no pleasure, it is just that everything is shrouded in black. It's beautiful, but it doesn't matter.

When I get into this place, I wish everything would just stop. If I were diagnosed with a life-threatening illness right now, I would spurn all treatment. If I thought I was having a heart attack while sitting in my chair, I would continue to sit – and wait.

What keeps me from meeting total oblivion is that I'm ashamed what my funeral would be like. There were times past when a funeral would have been attending not only by the obligatory family, but by friends and co-workers.

And that is the crux of my problem. The reason for the bleak black hole of my current despair. I have no friends. A funeral would be attended by a handful of family and maybe some of Dick's golfing buddies, there to support him. Maybe.

I am so isolated. I am so lonely. I'm told that my family loves me, but I feel so unlovable that I find it ludicrous. My place seems to be filled by a hollow, shallow, old creature who is bitter and distant. I can play the part of wife, mother, grandmother, sister – but it feels empty. I do what I am supposed to do. I am fearful to ask for anything because I don't know how severely or casually (and I'm not sure which is worse) the request will be denied.

I have what most people would enjoy. Why can't I enjoy it? Perhaps because joy increases when shared and I don't have any way to share, probably it is because I don't have the joy to start with.

I've been in this place before. But I'm staying here more and more. I miss, desperately miss, everyone on the deck drinking coffee, eating Chex Mix, and watching the kids play. I hate sitting in my house day after day, alone and lonely. I wait for the email bell to ring, pretending that it means that someone cares, when it is usually one of the myriad mailings I sign up for and has nothing of any personal contact whatsoever.

I've joined some groups and see people in the group and then come back home to my isolation. I've been in solitary confinement now for four years and I'm still unsure of my crime.

The prison walls were built by me. I wish I could find the key to open the door. I simply hate my life and don't have enough imagination, strength, or will to change it.