Thursday, July 9, 2020

How I Learned To Stop Scurrying


It's not just depression, of course. It rarely is only that - the misery of melancholy. It is anxiety, also, and lots of it, without much control over any of it. There is no use in talking about it, or writing about it. I feel as if I am about to explode with sadness. Few pleasures remain.

I like the pic above. I love images that are, at least in part, abstractions. Some blurring of light, suggestive of the ways in which time and memory affect the past images of the ideas of the mind. Just a basic composition, enough detail to relay the nature of the subject - simplification as a compositional technique. Helena is the youngest of my three Kingsbery sisters.

I have no more to convey tonight. I screamed at the boy because his energy level was driving me crazy. I did not demean him, but the effect was dispiriting for both of us nonetheless. I desperately need him to go play with kids his age. I am certain that he feels the same. Who knows what damage has already occurred or is yet to come.

Mom and I have done very little, almost nothing, to prepare for the worst. We stopped talking about it months ago. Months that feel like years. It will be an unbearable horror for me if I'm not the one who dies first. Tomorrow, I will withdraw all of my money from every account that I have so that it is all in untraceable cash. I will feel safer then, less anxious, with much greater control over anything that happens. If nothing can make me feel pleasure then I will do what makes me feel more secure.

I've heard the government gets notified any time somebody withdraws or transfers more than $20,000. How can that possibly be legal?