A stream of conciousness I just found in my notes and probably wrote at work:
We write to stay afloat. I could talk to someone but I don’t even know what I would say anymore. I am no longer coherent, I have inherited
something I cannot give back, in body and mind, in thought and many unkind ways. where have the days gone that I once knew, those peaceful, carefree, relaxed days when everything was almost always okay? Who do I talk to now? I don’t even know what I would say that would be worth the energy, worth other people hearing, worth enduring their concerned faces, as all traces of me fade away, even those alive in the minds of others. All I can say is I’m sorry I can’t and I don’t know and I don’t know.