Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #7
Trying to distract my mind, I’ve thrown myself into books. Lately, it’s been Philipp Mainländer. What a fascinating and tragic figure—so brilliant, but so tormented. His writing, his ideas, are like a storm: intense, churning, restless. Reading him is like being inside the mind of someone who sees every flaw in existence and can’t look away. It’s such a shame—no, it’s infuriating, really—that he ended his own life so young.
I woke up today feeling weighed down by a kind of sadness I can’t get rid of. It isn’t just being sad—more like this deep, listless dissatisfaction that keeps running under everything. I find myself so tired and so worn through by this stupid disease. Multiple sclerosis is gnawing at me—not just my body, though losing so much of my mobility hurts every single day—but at my sense of self. It’s like MS is killing me inch by inch, not always physically, but with this persistent, gnawing frustration. I’m not who I was. I miss walking, not just to get somewhere, but for the sake of moving, feeling free, feeling capable. I loathe sitting here, becoming someone who depends on others. It chips away at my independence, and with every bit that falls off, I feel myself fading. Trying to distract my mind, I’ve thrown myself into books. Lately, it’s been Philipp Mainländer. What a fascinating and tragic figure—so brilliant, but so tormented. His writing, his ideas, are like a storm: intense, churning, restless. Reading him is like being inside the mind of someone who sees every flaw in existence and can’t look away. It’s such a shame—no, it’s infuriating, really—that he ended his own life so young. I can’t help but feel we’ve lost someone who could have been one of the greats, someone who might have changed the landscape of philosophy if he’d endured a little longer. People love to say that his philosophy led him to his tragic end, that his ideas were his undoing. Maybe that’s true, I don’t know. But to me, it feels like such a waste of intellect, of diligence, of a mind that wouldn’t stop probing and searching. It’s hard not to draw some parallels to how I feel on days like this, the sense of frustration, the fatigue, the endless wrestling with things I didn’t choose. It reminds me how fragile even the strongest minds can be. I wish I had a sense of hope today, or something wiser to write, but I just don’t. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up in a better place. For now, it’s one more page turned in a heavy book, one more day lived in a body I hardly recognize.
Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #6
The strangest sensation comes over me: I feel blank, almost as if my face has disappeared—erased, featureless. Nothing to distinguish me, nothing to mark me as me. I imagine myself as one of those unfinished marionettes in a cluttered workshop—no identity, no lines drawn, just raw wood and string, not ready for anything, not even display.
It’s an overcast day today. The sky is a heavy, blank gray—the kind of endless, low ceiling that presses softly against the world, muting every color. There’s a gloom to it, and just enough chill in the air that for a moment, I’m fooled into thinking it’s Autumn. Almost. But I know soon enough it will shift—humidity creeping in, the air growing thick and hot. I can sense it waiting in the wings, ready to replace this melancholic chill with a different kind of discomfort. I woke up feeling ill, a fog wrapping around both my body and my thoughts. There’s heaviness in my limbs that I can’t fully explain away, and my mind feels just as sluggish as the sky. The strangest sensation comes over me: I feel blank, almost as if my face has disappeared—erased, featureless. Nothing to distinguish me, nothing to mark me as me. I imagine myself as one of those unfinished marionettes in a cluttered workshop—no identity, no lines drawn, just raw wood and string, not ready for anything, not even display. Even when people surround me, it’s as though I’m alone, locked somewhere far back within myself, behind rattling thoughts bouncing around a vacant space. I watch the conversations and interactions as if through frosted glass, both near and infinitely far away. I can’t seem to trust my own opinions, let alone voice them—sometimes I wonder if they even matter, or if anyone would care if I did speak up. But why should they notice me? There isn’t anything worth seeing. That’s what it feels like—hollow, indistinct, a silhouette instead of a person. These moments of emptiness come often. Still, it’s not that I’m unhappy with my life in general. If anything, I’m genuinely grateful for how things are. I like the way I live, the patterns and routines I’ve built. But inside myself, I’m restless, dissatisfied. Content with the world that I move through, yet at odds with the person moving through it.
Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #5
I’m still diligently chasing that next chapter—books, blog posts, social media—each word crafted despite, or maybe because of, everything that intrudes upon my ability to function day-to-day. In some strange way, the pleasure I get from producing meaningful work justifies the exhaustion that follows, though sometimes I wonder if I push so hard because I am afraid of fading into irrelevance, of letting down the people who have quietly depended on my projects for years. I keep coming back to the feeling that I had to sleep that intensely, that uncontrollably, a full-body surrender after prolonged strain, as if my brain simply overrode the familiar routines of insomnia because the creative labor demanded it.
I woke today and realized I had somehow slept for eleven whole hours—an almost mythical length of time for someone like me, whose nights so often dissolve into fractured, restless fragments, given the chronic insomnia that wields its own authority over my life. The grogginess that filled the first moments after waking felt like trudging through dense fog, my mind not quite latching onto reality, as if it too had been stitched together awkwardly after the chaos of so much deep, healing sleep. It’s funny, isn’t it, how our bodies can keep the score when we refuse to listen, forcing us to stop and rest at the most inconvenient moments, probably because there's simply no other option left; all those days and weeks spent pouring myself into projects—relentless in my pursuit of visibility and connection on social media, tending to the online world where my words and presence feel so necessary, almost like proof that I am still, in some sense, whole. I can’t deny there’s a particular satisfaction in seeing my creative work take shape, that sudden alignment of inspiration and stamina, though it so often comes at a cost. Last night, my neck throbbed with excruciating pain, sharp and electric, radiating upwards in those unpredictable flashes that only MS knows how to deliver, making my whole body clench tight, my thoughts spin in place with both anxiety and resignation. The shooting pains remind me how much physical sensation is tied up with the mental effort of recovery—not just the ache but the memory of past flares, and the silent dread that accompanies each new symptom. These days, writing is my way forward and my lifeline, but I have to admit the effort leaves me spent, and I am reminded every single time that my body and mind are undertaking a kind of ongoing negotiation, a private reckoning of limits, ambitions, and disappointments. I’m still diligently chasing that next chapter—books, blog posts, social media—each word crafted despite, or maybe because of, everything that intrudes upon my ability to function day-to-day. In some strange way, the pleasure I get from producing meaningful work justifies the exhaustion that follows, though sometimes I wonder if I push so hard because I am afraid of fading into irrelevance, of letting down the people who have quietly depended on my projects for years. I keep coming back to the feeling that I had to sleep that intensely, that uncontrollably, a full-body surrender after prolonged strain, as if my brain simply overrode the familiar routines of insomnia because the creative labor demanded it. There’s a bittersweet rhythm to this cycle—deep rest followed by slow reanimation, the familiar tug-of-war with my immune system, the balancing act with medications that both steady and sedate. Still, I hold onto the little victories—waking up, despite the aches, feeling just a touch more capable, believing in the possibility of moving forward. I’m learning that recovery, for me, isn’t just about time spent sleeping or feeling better after pain; it’s about reconciling the unsteady beauty of this “onward and upward” life: the acceptance that my body will always have the final say, the decision to press on with my writing and special projects, to nurture hope for new beginnings, even while still mourning the losses of old endeavors. Each day is a testament to how much resilience looks like stubbornness, creativity, and a degree of grace—chosen again and again, even on days that start out groggy and heavy, but nonetheless, are undeniably mine.
Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #4
I am thinking of starting up a new book press, making the books very limited and in-house. Maybe it will become something better and more significant than the last endeavor. I had worked on that book press for 25 years. But it had to end.
I feel so much better today. Got some rest and started back on a regular medication regimen. I have to learn that I get very psychotic and depressed when I don’t take my meds at the correct times. I am working on a special project, and I hope to finish it soon. It has been taking a while. I feel bad that I haven’t released any new physical writings or books lately. I need to get back into that. I have acquired all the bookbinding materials, and I am ready to start binding my hardcover books. Creating and testing out my new glue binder for perfect-bound books has been fun so far; I just need to perfect the craft. The hardcovers will be challenging to begin with, but it sounds and looks so peaceful and serene to do when I watch videos of people binding their books. I am thinking of starting up a new book press, making the books very limited and in-house. Maybe it will become something better and more significant than the last endeavor. I had worked on that book press for 25 years. But it had to end. I think the name was caught on some kind of list or blocked in some way, because the traffic was low. Perhaps I wasn’t managing as well as I could. I feel like I've let some people down. But onward and upward.
Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #3
My dreams of the angels of Ezekiel’s vision have been haunting me. It is bad enough that I am hounded by regret and anger, even though those events of disgust are long past and gone, but it is another thing to be tortured by these voices and demons that constantly torment me.
Another night and another day without rest. I haven’t slept in a while, but I feel frenetic and filled with anxiety. My dreams of the angels of Ezekiel’s vision have been haunting me. It is bad enough that I am hounded by regret and anger, even though those events of disgust are long past and gone, but it is another thing to be tortured by these voices and demons that constantly torment me. On several occasions, I have awakened from dreams of terrifying angels into a reality of demons and devils taunting me. I cannot remember what it was like before the demonic entities that have become my constant and malign companions. Sometimes, the voices are so loud, it is unbearable, and I resort to the liquid antipsychotic when the regular four antipsychotics are not working. As of now, I am fatigued, but alert and agitated. Another night with the specters of the past, another night with Hell as the destination, and the entire world’s weight on my back.
Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #2
It’s been hot here, and the weather is affecting my condition, my disease. The lesions in my brain and spinal cord swell when it’s hot, and I am unable to walk or get around as easily. I guess I should be used to it by now, but I’m not.
I’m planning on a couple of book releases this year. The majority of the writing is finished, thankfully. One book will be philosophical musings, and the other a book of poems and prose poems. I want to work on my novel, but I am stunned by anxiety every time I think about it. It seems like a monumental task, so I tell myself I only need to write a few pages at a time, each day, if I can. I’ve been so depressed lately, though. Less downtrodden and more sad. Somehow, it seems less sharp a downward trend than depression, more soft a descent, but still a spiral out of control. It’s been hot here, and the weather is affecting my condition, my disease. The lesions in my brain and spinal cord swell when it’s hot, and I am unable to walk or get around as easily. I guess I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. I’m pretty fearful. I have to get an MRI soon. I am afraid of what they will find.
Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #1
I’m absent from reality. I’m invisible, even to myself, at times. I look around and all I see are faceless people walking around and living life, not so much depersonalized as out of reach and unrecognizable to me, because I simply don’t know what to look for.
I feel terrible today. How can I be enough for others when I don’t think that I am worthwhile to even myself? Sometimes, it all seems futile. I want to be more; I want to be better. I would love nothing more than to be a source of support and camaraderie for others, but I find it increasingly challenging to do so. I feel so detached, so dissociated. Maybe that’s the problem. No one wants a psychotically depressed, borderline personality disorder case on their hands. Why would they? So, I do my best at writing, at art, and so on, to reach people indirectly, from within the relative safety and distance of art. I want to create catharsis for others through my work, but more directly, I want to prove to myself that I am good enough, to no avail. I’m absent from reality. I’m invisible, even to myself, at times. I look around and all I see are faceless people walking around and living life, not so much depersonalized as out of reach and unrecognizable to me, because I simply don’t know what to look for. They don’t care about identity, I think, because they know who they are. I feel lacking in identity, lacking in definition, and a reason to exist. Civilization goes on and acts on its wishes, according to its devising, giving itself agency, all while I am merely a spectator to their lives, their endeavors. I suppose I always have been.