I don't write, I heard from a penpal that this blog is depressing, but I don't think so, I mean, it's hard for me to judge it objectively, I only know it helps me survive, when I get into the loop, when I isolate myself like I did today, staying in, confining myself to my apartment and the screen, mostly, trying to reach out but failing, trying to work but not quite managing.
Sometimes I feel so out of touch with home, so far away. My mum called while I was trying to put together some mechanical task that would resemble some pretext of work, and I told her I was busy. I regretted it, but she was not online later. And my phone isn't working anymore, so I can't call her, just skype.
It's cold in this lonely northern corner of the world, and night comes early, and every day I walk the same route, which makes life easier in my condition but also so predictable. I have a chance to take chances, but I don't dare. I know any kind of journey I will have to do should be an inner one, no more pretending for me, faking someone I am not, business clothes and foreign table manners in neon-lit crowded streets, border controls and nights in far off places, stange beds and learning the ropes. I don't want to do that alone. I don't have to shout my disease from the rooftops, but I can no longer afford to be anything but myself. Even though I will be in another country a month from now, meeting P.'s family, ready or not.
Meeting with the psychologist at the hospital again tomorrow.
And maybe all this subdued panic is because, for once, I heard "I love you too"?