Ghost in the Shell (an update for Ciro)

[Note: Some of you have already received this in e-mail pending my ability to post here.]

I am cripplingly depressed. It's not very interesting, so I don't write about it. I watch a little bit of TV - not much, since we have crap reception, but a little - stuff I've taped. James West. The Avengers. I pet the cats that aren't allowed in my room. I have a lot of sex, which makes me feel good and helps me sleep, although not as well as it used to.

I cry a lot, stare off into space. This is where the crippling part comes in. That and being unable to write, sing, dance, act. Speak. Tell jokes. Play cards.

I have abandoned board games completely. Video games too, mostly. I don't enjoy being unlucky; it's not something I'm used to. Maybe I've been called a cheater too many times, and a liar. I'm tired of losing no matter how well I play; I get that enough in my real life.

I still don't own pants. I've given up, and I'm wearing jeans. My hair is brown and shaggy. Val says I've lost weight. I'm very attractive, actually, only not when I'm in Sherman. There's a film of ugly that coats everything and when I look in the mirror I see hideous fat exhaustion.

Sherman also makes me stupid. I noticed coming back from Boston; I lose IQ points at the city limits. I become less charming, less verbose. Maybe that's a blessing, but I don't see how. It's not as though I need smarts now. The only book I've read this month was a D&D players' guide. I try; I just can't stay focused.

I miss my piano. Val's piano. Whatever. Our lease is up this month, and when we move I'll bring it up from Dallas. I may start teaching lessons if I can get students. Lord knows I'm overtrained. This is something I swore I'd never do, by the way, the reason I wasn't a music major in college. Teaching piano. Now I wouldn't mind so much - explaining sharps and flats, clefs and fermatas. Anyway, I need the money. Badly. It's been months since I've bought anything other than food for myself, and I barely made rent. Dad gave me $1000 for Christmas because I can't afford things like vitamins and my shoes are falling apart. Patrick has holiday money too. Together, we have almost three-thousand dollars, but I am so wary of spending that this new pen feels wasteful - India ink, waterproof, lightfast. Two dollars.

I'm not very entertaining. I don't invite people over, because I would ignore them. I drink a lot. Not carelessly - I hate hangovers. But I do have a beer with dinner, or whiskey. More whiskey after I brush my teeth, as a chaser for the toothpaste. Not enough to get more than buzzed. I don't consider this frivolous.

I am getting better, sort of, because being depressed gets extremely boring. I'm down to crying once, twice a week instead of every day. It hurt Patrick too much, even though it had nothing to do with him. Since we got back, it's as though he spends all his time holding on to me. He's afraid I'll disappear if he looks away.

The last thing is that I can't do magic anymore. Empathy, energy manipulation, fate. You never believed in it anyway, but it was real. And now I can't feel it. It will come back once I move, but for now I compensate by not caring as much about being a good person. I don't help people. I don't hold doors or pick up the things they can't carry, even if it wouldn't inconvenience me. It sounds petty, but I just don't notice.

I don't know how to end this, really. I'm working on a graphic novel, or was working on a graphic novel, that was rather brilliant in its own way, but I don't know that I'll finish it. My family was singularly unsupportive, which I didn't really expect and was not prepared to deal with. It's my fault, though. I shouldn't tell people about my projects when I'm not ready for criticism.

I am very, very tired.