Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #8
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.
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
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.