I need this journal, not as a hiding place, but as a finding place. As a treasure chest, full of broken items. A blackboard to add the numbers together, and keep an accurate score. These days will be reduced to nothing but lead markings, guided by mania and depression. There is blood on my teeth, and it is my own.
My mother, she used to give me a spoonful of sugar when she was afraid, forcing me to swallow it. It will calm your nerves, she would say. She was always afraid, and so my stomach ached often. But it would comfort me, and I cannot explain why. Perhaps, it made me happy to please her. Or it is that I loved being the focus of her attention. In writing, I find the same comfort.
I look for reasons to feel grateful, and in that attempt, I find my head empty. It is peaceful to chase thoughts away. This is some kind of comical, and it doesn’t scare me. I find odd things soothing, and soothing things odd.