A title going around on my message board. It’s true, medication seems to often sap the creative drive of a writer and, likely, other artists. Suddenly it’s not so easy to put together words, form images that will carry a piece, find new ways of phrasing things. Out trot the tired cliches from past writing. If I usually wrote on paper there would be wads of paper all over my desk. This is all thanks to medication that rewires our brains into feeling human. Perhaps a lesser human than previously, one that stumbles when it comes to finding their muse. I don’t particularly think that mental illness usually makes one brilliant or creative but losing that part that makes you able to write several different works a month makes it almost worth it to throw those pills away and regain whatever it was that made words come so easily.

I have managed to begin a memoir of sorts. I’m not sure if I will ever complete it though I’ve been urged to by family. It just seems like masturbation in some ways but in others it’s interesting looking back and seeing the journey between fucked up and ‘fine’. ‘Fine’ is being able to look at yourself and find that you care if tomorrow happens.

Not much to report in my life. School and yet more school. I whittled down to two classes because I was told I had no need for the other. It seems the list may shrink down to one if I write a letter to get my Advanced Placement grade. Then, after this semester, two classes until graduation. I don’t know whether to be excited or dreading that final detachment from the umbilical cord. I opt for an uneasy medium, planning what may or may not happen.

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