I feel as if I cannot communicate with my world. I believe that my thoughts and ideas make sense, but whenever I try to speak of them to other people, it comes out wrong, tight, controlled, almost drunk. I wish I were articulate and rational. I wish that the communication flowed through me and in me, back and forth, like fluid in the womb. But it surely doesn't. If I'm not hitting a wall, I'm spinning in circles.

Is it too much to ask to be stimulated by my world? Am I too lazy to be happy? Or have I not clearly defined to myself those things that will make me truly happy? I believe that time with friends will fill the void, but when I spend time with friends, I still find things to be unhappy about. Family doesn't fill, love doesn't fill, the sunshine and free air doesn't fill. I'm not full. I am that small figure clutching their knees in the large cathedral of my body.

Is this simply immaturity? A lack of experience?

I must now face the days without the (stifling) blanket of an SSRI and, though it feels good to be free, all moments seem heavier. (Kundera: lighter does seem better.)

The nausea comes and goes.