Indignation

Tonight I was angry at the world. It was an unfamiliar sensation.

The day wasn't bad. I did some writing, then made manhattan's yummy power pancakes for lunch.

I drove to Staples and bought a new pen because the old one got scratchy. Also new printer cartridges, so I can print my resume.

Then I stopped at the gym for the first time since May 25, when I started these pills. Swimming and hiking has kept me toned all summer, but I've gained about seven pounds thanks to the drug. I did the chest and back routines with the same weights as before. By then, sweating hard, I decided to cut the session short, shower and go home.

I made a shake with milk, a peach, a scoop of protein supplement, and a scoop of ice cream. It was delicious.

The anger came later. I was thinking about my writing, and how I have let photography—and my hunger for affirmation—distract me from my original purpose of a literary journal. Poetry and fiction don't draw comments as easily as images.

Now here I have a therapist advising me to concentrate on everything but my creative output. Life carries on, yet I'm still torn between what I want and what people tell me is practical. I have misused vaneramos, fishing for comments and attention (and sulking when I don't receive them), while my true aspirations fell into neglect. Earlier this evening I was ready to dump the journal.

Self-confidence doesn't come easily, but I trust my writing to keep me grounded. Words feel powerful. Few things matter to me as much as having a fountain pen that doesn't scratch.

I made a fresh batch of pesto to have with shell pasta for a late dinner. Feeling angry at the world isn't so bad. Really it's anger at myself for losing my way again.

Anger motivates action. I feel energized and purposeful. It's better than getting depressed, and I can thank Remeron for that.

The journal is a metaphor for life, and I must change my approach to it.