That's why I come here – just to "talk"; I have no one, save my doc, to speak to. No one to call, email, write. I'm beginning to allow my hypergraphia to overcome me again and so it is my journal that takes the brunt of the punishment. Here, I can control it.

I wonder what we mean when we say or think things such as "I cannot live like this any longer," or "I just cannot take this any longer"? Those of us who, for whatever reason, are not suicidal are expressing soulful frustration, I think, but we keep going, somehow. I say those things but I keep going.

Even sixteen years ago, when my depression caused me to become mute, I do not believe that I reached as low a point than I have at this moment. Never.

I do not know what to do.

This is a frightening feeling. I am stuck. I wish that I could pull a Billy Pilgrim and become unstuck in time.

Kurt Vonnegut was born on this date. November 11, 1922, I think. His mother killed herself by swallowing Drano. So it goes. He killed himself with Pall Mall cigarettes. Everyone must go at some time.

It is early in the evening 7:30pm CST. What to do?

Take care, everyone. Take very good care.