Me, on a random sunny day, writing about my emotional state:

“I went to the bathroom after I woke up from this dream, looked out of the window, and I saw the sun starting rising. I looked around and decided I didn’t give a fuck anymore, it was too beautiful outside to not go for a walk.

I had to get this out of me, writing being my therapy and all, and now I can go eat breakfast and hopefully find warm pants in which I can safely go out without freezing my thighs off. I pray I won’t fall or fuck up my knee. Fingers crossed.”

Me, on another sunny day, approximately 150000 words into a 547646 words long fic that’s set in the Victorian era, when I feel the need to pour my current feelings onto paper:

“I thought I was, at last, clear of the influence of depression that has plagued my mind since January. Granted, such dark thoughts never did leave my head completely, they just got buried so far back in the vast land of my mind I couldn’t access them as easily as I do now. My walls have crumbled down. What once was the fiercest fortress guarding the fragile contents of this human shell now lays in ruins.”

“I grieve for my former self. Why couldn’t I lose both weight and the mental shackles that prevent me from living? Does one always have to forfeit one thing to gain another?”