I do too much laying down. Too much thinking. Too much futile plans. Well, maybe not all the plans are futile. Getting better everyday by taking my communion of 40mg of Prozac with hot black cup of coffee; have Xanax in emergency standby. I write, which helps. I write books though they haven’t born fruit as I had hoped. Woke up early at 10 in the morning, and I mean morning because I was asleep at ten when the call came that a job had come up. I head out and do my paperwork, my data entry for about half an hour and then I am back home, in bed, waking at three and wanting to jump off my roof. Now as I type I realize something I forgot: this depression i’m feeling is a sickness. A real world biological type thing. I had this thought before but I just recalled it. I just got to keep taking my medicine and I will keep it down. Dumb fool idea of mine to get off the stuff thinking they were making me numb. They were. In compared to what I’m feeling now, numb is great. No more heavy pit in my chest. No more blankly staring off at the ceiling or walls wondering what in god’s name am I going to do. No more self medicating with unhealthier substances. I got to stay in bed. Keep myself in the dark until the pills do their magic like they always do. I can not be walking around doing things, trying to live in my current state. I will take this week off and be in the dark. Waiting fo the wires to be untangled and the poison to leave the system. Get my head right.