That makes seven. Seven years since the diagnosis of manic depression. I'd say I turned seven, but I got chewed out for that last year, so I'll just mark the occassion and move on. Although if you want to read probably one of the most honest assessments I've made of the whole situation, there's last year's journal entry.
I nearly forgot, there's so much else going on in my head. But it's really not all that important in the end.
I'm finding myself these days in the headspace where I'm trying to work out a bunch of things. Human beings aren't meant to be stuck in holding patterns, but here I am. And I need some time to think. That's why there's not been much in the way of journal entries, and why I haven't been keeping up with other people as good as I should be. I need some time to figure out what the hell I'm doing, I think.
Anyway, Saturday is big game and Sunday is the odometer click from 25 to 26, so hopefully if I can make it through this weekend, things will look brighter. I have to hope.
