Some Reason To Live

It's a horrible disease. I keep clinging to some reason to live.

If I go back to Stanford, the doctors will want to do more ECT, where the treatment is as bad as the illness--memory less, confusion, cognitive effects.

I think about my life, where I'm going, where I've been. At nineteen, I wanted a graduate degree.

Now, I can't pass a community college course without taking it multiple times first.

Everyone has hopes and dreams that don't work out. People adjust and move on. They find new interests and goals--or they make do with what they have. They live with the cold resentment and disappointment. For others, nothing is ever good enough.

I feel like life has just moves on without me. I get up every day, and people are busy going about the world, and nothing I do matters because I can't affect anything--I'm silently behind some glass--banging against some window--ignored by the rest of the population. I exist--but only as a ghost which no one sees nor hears. As goes my days. I can touch nothing but my cage.

And so is my deep sense of isolation.