The lack of creative energy in a hyper-creative person like myself is hard to describe. Every word I write here is near impossible, every one a weight I lift—dug from the trenches of my brain—and put down on paper.

I’m not even sure which of my mental disorders is the culprit here, but at this point, I have nothing I can think of writing other than going meta and writing about the inability to write.

This extends to far more things as of late.

Nothing is right.

(That is the OCD talking there, as well as the anxiety.)

The OCD in me doesn’t like the anxiety in me. That is a problem I’ve noticed. A figurative personnel problem. Though I am the only person involved here. Anxiety is messy, it is wrong most of the time, and no matter how many times I find that it is irrational and easily fixed after a period of time, I cannot imbibe the fact that there is a solution to anxiety (time). Thus, my OCD obsesses over fixing the anxiety through whatever means necessary (except time.)

I often purposely oversleep. I wish to be away from the world. The catch here is I feel a tremendous amount of guilt in oversleeping. Which creates anxiety, which I then obsess over getting rid of.
I am sure you’re noticing a pattern here.

Here’s what matters: I barely exist at this point. I’m contributing pretty much nothing to the world, as I measure my contributions to the world.

This is useless. This article is probably useless.

I should be back soon.

In some form.

I had such high hopes for this week.

This month.