I need to learn how to be comfortable with my own imperfection.

I’m having a bit of a crisis — just a dip after a bit of hypomania — my therapy appointment last night made me think about stuff I don’t like to consider.

I do not like to admit how much I miss certain things, certain people.

I am not complete. Not in that stupid ass Jerry McGuire way; more like there’s something missing that ought to be there — a hand hold for people to get a grip on. I’ve chipped them all off, I think.

I feel my age. I’m aging away from the people around me. I am afraid of looking ridiculous. I am afraid of that.

I snap too easily, say dumb things, can’t think, can’t concentrate. I haven’t written a poem longer than twenty lines or so in months — not because they aren’t there to be written, but because I can’t focus long enough to write them.

I’m afraid of not being a poet anymore.

I am failing at things I should do easily, and I don’t know how to get back to wwhere I was. I don’t even know if I should or can, but I know I don’t like it here.

Is this all I’ve got to look forward to? Because I’m scared of that, too.

I’m living scared. I’m never scared. I’m always scared.

This is not good.

(NOTE: please don’t call. I’m not going to talk about it after this. I needed to give it away because I needed to look at it on the screen and know I’d admitted it in public — I’m scared of where I am right now, not in a suicidal way, but in terms of how I’m changing.

Thank you for reading this.

Repeat: I’m not going to speak of it again. Please, do not call me.)