Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #18

I figure I should start adding to my diary for the new year. I have been slacking on it. I should be more vigilant, but depression gets to me. Plus, I am on a ton of pain and psych meds that are sedating.

I often feel alone. I feel sad. For the world, for myself. It’s terrible out there, and we are doing it to ourselves. One of the reasons I don’t get outside much is because of fear. I know one should not live in fear of the world, but take the good with the bad. It seems to me there is becoming much more bad in the world than one can or should tolerate. The other reason is tedium. I see the same thing happening day after day, mindlessly spiralling downward, and it leaves me feeling with a sense of ennui. Part also why I am a night person. I cannot stand the world during the daytime.

Searching within myself, I find that sometimes I no longer care about a better world. I know it doesn’t or won’t exist. Things seem to just get worse and worse. Why wish? Why pray? Why pine for it? It’s never going to happen. Maybe that is fatalistic to say, but it is true. We are all inherently flawed people. It is what makes us unique to one another, yes, but it is also a double-edged sword because while flaws bring beauty to the world, they also bring divisiveness and derision.

Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #17

Well, it is the end of the year. As is obvious, I have my website up. I figured it was time to give the website another go. This year has been challenging on many fronts: I lost my beloved kitty, had bad MRI results, and general life weariness that gets to us all, among other troubles. So much has happened, and I get the feeling that many feel that so much more is around the bend, for good or bad.

I appreciate all of those who have stuck with me through the years, and for new people to have come to enjoy my work. I was posting on Substack, and will continue to, but I will also have my work posted here as I find Substack lacking and filled to the brim with people trying to make it. There is nothing wrong with that, but I figured my own site was worth the trouble of opening it again to have an exclusive place for my work.

I hope you are all well. I hope this year is better than last. Take care, and I love you all.

Sincerely,

Joanna

Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #14

Lately, I feel overwhelmed by a persistent sense of hopelessness and helplessness, as if no matter what I do, nothing will truly change. This heaviness stays with me almost constantly—I wake up feeling it, carry it through my day, and it lingers even during quiet moments. It’s not just sadness; it’s a deep, lasting emptiness—a hollow feeling I can’t seem to fill. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just drifting through life, invisible and pointless, simply occupying space rather than truly living. The thoughts keep returning: that I’m wasted or that I have nothing good to offer. It’s tiring, and I can’t even remember when it started—these feelings seem woven into my earliest memories. I know my self-esteem has been low for as long as I can remember. Looking back, I don’t recall many happy or carefree times. My memories are often clouded by discomfort, insecurity, or moments when I felt small or inadequate. Even now, when I try to remember something positive, it’s overshadowed by that persistent doubt that I’m flawed or not enough. Sometimes I feel an urge to scream or just let everything out, to find relief from what I’m feeling so intensely. There are times when nothing feels worth it—when I’m so tired of battling the same thoughts that it seems pointless to keep going. But deep down, I know that’s not true. Logically, I understand that things can be meaningful, that there are reasons to hope or try. But actually feeling it—believing it—right now, that’s the hardest part. I don’t know what the future holds. Sometimes I just wish I could quiet the noise in my head, or believe—even for a moment—that things could be better. Maybe writing this down is something. Maybe it helps, even a little, just to admit how heavy all of this feels.

Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #12

Every fleeting moment weighs heavily on me, an overwhelming force that demands my attention. There's a cruel fascination in its weight—a relentless ache that pulls me deeper into darkness. Days don’t just pass; they impose themselves on me with ruthless intensity, harshly seductive, dragging me into an endless, shadowy abyss. I wake each day with despair etched into my face, but beneath it, I hold a quiet, unwavering acceptance—a surrender to the emptiness I cannot escape. I am a marionette, controlled by unseen, indifferent forces that dominate my every move, yet I find a dark thrill in submitting to these strings, in relinquishing control. My actions and choices are mere illusions—fleeting flashes of light and shadow—guiding me into a tragic, predetermined dance. The vast silence of space is cold and unmoving, an indifferent giant that ignores my suffering and the quiet pull of my despair. I once believed persistence could forge purpose or meaning. Still, that hope has been shattered—replaced by stark, unflinching truth: there is no hidden meaning, only a consuming emptiness that is both terrifying and oddly comforting in its hold. The only reality is this lonely stage, a barren arena where life plays its pointless, relentless drama—unnoticed, unworthy of attention, yet hauntingly intimate in its solitude. I keep moving, aware and resigned—trapped in the darkness that dominates all. But I don’t always believe that to be the case. There’s a lot of good; I need to explore it.

Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #11

I feel so tired today, more than usual. I know I function best at night—there's something about the quiet, the calm darkness that lets me think clearly and feel at ease. But despite that, I can't shake this growing sense of loneliness. I miss talking to people, sharing moments and conversations, even the little bits of interaction that make up our days. Sometimes, this place feels like a labyrinth. Endless rooms, doors, and hallways stretching out with no way to escape. It’s as if I’m wandering through it, searching for meaning or just someone to say hello to, but mostly finding emptiness. It gets lonely. I feel alone a lot. I’ve been thinking about Nietzsche’s theory of Eternal Recurrence. The idea that everything repeats itself endlessly, every joy, every sorrow, every mistake, all looping back in an infinite cycle. I wonder if it’s true. And if it is, what does that mean for me? I hope not—that I wouldn’t want to be trapped reliving this same existence again and again. But at the same time, I wonder if maybe I’d like a chance to move on from here—or maybe to stay, to fix the things I messed up the first time around. Perhaps that’s the hope beneath the exhaustion: if I could do it all over again, maybe this time I’d get it right. But for now, I’m just here, tired, alone, waiting for the night to come again.

Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #8

Lately, I’ve been grappling with a deep sense of fatigue — it’s as if my entire body is weighed down by something heavier than exhaustion. The illness I carry feels relentless, creeping into every corner of my daily life. Even the most ordinary things, comforts I used to rely on, now seem unfamiliar, almost alien. I wonder if these changes come from the lesions in my brain; it’s unsettling to realize that what’s happening inside me is reshaping how I see the world. This loss of familiarity brings a quiet fear. I worry about the possibility of losing my mobility, about the day I might be unable to walk or care for myself. The thought of losing my independence, of relying on others for simple tasks, haunts me. Still, I refuse to let these fears stop me. I’m determined to keep moving forward, to press on despite the challenges. Amid all this uncertainty, my special project has become a beacon. Organizing my writings, giving myself something meaningful to focus on, has brought a sense of purpose and hope. As I prepare this new work, I picture them resonating with others, maybe giving them comfort or understanding. That hope — that my words might reach someone — is what keeps me going.

Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #6

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 #4

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

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

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 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.