This had not been (I write, deciding to be understated for once) a good week. I'm not certain I want to describe it, even in the paper of this journal. But I will be honest, too honest, and note that I have slept as much as I could, because I couldn't bear to be awake. I would get into bed, and roll over in the tangled, stale warm sheets, and wait for my mind to shut off for another long dull nap. Then when I got up, I would feel as though I were still asleep, and inside the blurred light of a dream. But even though I must have had dreams when I was asleep, I don't have to remember any of them now.

There was one moment when I almost decided that I wouldn't write in here again, and that would be forever. I don't know how I got past that, but somehow, through force of will, I have. After all, I'm writing this down now.

It shouldn't be this easy to feel exactly the way I did when I was twelve, and sixteen, when I was filled with constant, hopeless, stupid rage.

But that doesn't matter. It turns out that nothing has changed.

But I could have felt much worse, and I do feel (somewhat, cautiously) better now. I wanted to take a nap after work, and then especially after dinner, but I made myself stay awake, even though my eyes felt like burnt-out black holes. Yesterday, I dyed my hair a dark nightsky blue. I just wanted—and yes, perhaps I needed—to look different. I know quite well what certain people, far off in the past, would say, but I don't have to care. I've never considered this color before, but it looks good. And if it hadn't—well, it only lasts for a month.

When I looked in the mirror this morning, I was white, actually paper white, instead of just dramatically pale. But I looked normal enough, and that is what has to matter.

Anyhow. I can return to thinking about, finally, getting a pet—since I live in a flat where I can actually have one. That old lady has two well-bred, rosepink, and star eyed pittens, but she didn't permit her tenants to have any pets, even ones that wouldn't oh dear, oh my, shed in her flats. I've only just started to look for a cat. A free bred one, a real one.

Yes, that means I'm not interested in those engineered animals, the ones that are pretty, docile, and have stubs instead of actual claws. I'll leave that to people like my maternal unit, my maternal uncle, and the women and little boys of House Darsk.

Oh, and since I mentioned that parent I won't, as I wrote some pages, talk about here, she commed me last night. I don't need to say I did not tell her how I spent, or wasted, the last week. But she didn't decide to notice anything. She wanted to know if I'm going to come visit them when I have my four (very much paid) days off for Empire Day. And I have considered it. It has been over six months since I went back—

But I've written enough for now. I think I shall go out (in that one black dress I haven't worn for a while, and which won't smell like my bed) and get something to eat. I have a novel on my datapad that I'm halfway through, and I will hope no one I know sees me. While I might be better, I don't feel like going through the motions of being nice right now.