Wednesday, December 06,20006.




Dear Diary,



I have been writing and receiving diary entries for over a year now and feel like I know this person so well. We have built up a great friendship and she is so grateful for every reply I send her. I know too that her past relationships with some men have well affected her mind and confused her bitterly. Many times she sits and thinks too hard and her mind wonders and she well feels the effects. She writes from her small compact bed-room that has only a single bed and a small table where she can only just barely sit in front of her laptop computer, where she enjoys her writing and solitude.

Photo’s adorn the walls of her beautiful chestnut horse and in each photo she is at its side, and her beautiful pale face shows so much love for this sensual animal. She has to squeeze past the small set of draws to ease herself out of this room she feels so safe in.

She has poured her heart and soul into every written word but then after she feels like the rapid force of a river that has just calmed and the reflections of ripples calm her to the core.
She hates that anyone is around her when her depression is at its worst but has great calming effects from her four legged horse; that she loves more than any human being. The feel of his velvet nuzzle and his hot breath next to her skin and the long beige mane she frantically strokes seem to influence signals, then the depressed state disappears without a trace and time seems to stand still for a split moment in time. These times, she says, are a rare occasion. Other times she is alone and settles for her own company.

“Watch your hair you are getting it all tangled around your fingers”, I said.
“Why do you feel more settled with you own company then”?
“I can think better on my own and I have no distractions and I really hate people seeing me like this.”
“You don’t give me that impression when I call on you though, you always seem to enjoy my company”. “That’s because I trust you my friend, and you will sit and listen without interrupting me. Others like to advise and control me and that makes me more depressed and why I seek my own company”.
“What are you doing with that belt in your hand”.
“I just like the feel of it. It is covered with silver paper and feels good”.
“Look at the floor though, you have scraped all that silver stuff off that belt and it looks like a carpet of silver dust. Why have you done that”?
“I, I don’t know. I didn’t know that I had even done anything? What is happening to me? Last week I unravelled all my knitting. You know, that red jumper I was about to finish off when I felt like it. My God! The belt is yours isn’t it. I’ll buy you another one my friend. I am so sorry. Really I am so very sorry”.
“Don’t worry about it. It was only cheap and the buckle kept coming loose on it. That’s why I took it off in the first place”.



“I can’t seem to find words just now”.
So much racing inside that she cannot even begin to express. She is hurting but all that’s visible is that she is still getting on with things. She also says that she is okay but the underlying meaning shows that she is not.


She prays that she can be heard without judgement and obligation. She also wishes that she could really convey her feelings to the extent of others feeling her pain to understand just what she is going through, but she can’t and others don’t. When her thoughts find no outlet then her feelings choose their own path. She feels like being towed to the very top of a roller-coaster with a speed that could send her in a variety of directions.

“Shit”, she says. The temporary feeling of suspension that hides in the centre of the mind. She wishes too that others could hear the symphony-of-a-thousand-tiny-violins playing, but perhaps not.

She’s sorry and scared and hopes that it gets easier. She knows it’s a feeling, she knows too that it’s a trick of the mind. It can be overcome, yet when it’s this strong and overwhelming her thoughts blacken through their own dammed hopelessness. Then she’s scared.
She struggles to remember, it will pass and that thought makes her more afraid with a more prolonged version of panic that is well hidden and no obvious outward signs.
She does knows that it’s all in the mind. When it consumes her it gets a strangle hold deep within and then it’s difficult to function. She says, “I manage”.

Her attention span is ridiculously minimal at the moment but she’s constantly trying to find something to slow the process down. She likes to write, it can break the mental pattern.
She struggles too with finding sufficient inspiration and motivation to write. She is tired. So very, very tired. Being scared and ashamed is certainly nothing that she is proud to share. She says. “Just how the hell do you explain chaos existing in emptiness? How do you explain when it bursts forth in multiple emotional directions.
“I don’t know my friend. I’ve tried many times. I mostly stick with hiding it best I can”.


950 words approx.