Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #18
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.
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 #14
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.
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 #13
I worry that I come off as awkward or shy instead. There are moments when I replay the conversation in my mind, wondering if I said something weird or seemed distant. I want her to see who I really am. Maybe I overthink things, but I genuinely care about being a good person—compassionate, sweet, the kind of person others can rely on.
Today was one of those days that made my heart race for all the right reasons. I met this girl—she’s so pretty, but it’s more than that. There’s something about the way she talks and listens, like you can see she’s truly interested in the world. I found myself hanging onto her words, wanting to know more about what she cares about and what makes her laugh. Deep down, I wonder what she thinks of me. Does she see someone she could be friends with—or maybe something more? I really hope so. I tried my best to be kind and thoughtful, as I always strive to be. I always want the people around me to feel valued and happy, but sometimes I worry that I come off as awkward or shy instead. There are moments when I replay the conversation in my mind, wondering if I said something weird or seemed distant. I want her to see who I really am. Maybe I overthink things, but I genuinely care about being a good person—compassionate, sweet, the kind of person others can rely on. I hope she sees that side of me. More than anything, I just want people to know I’m someone who tries to make the world a little brighter, and I wish she might notice that about me, too. I guess the only thing I can do is keep being myself. Who knows what might happen? Maybe this is just the beginning of something special.
Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #12
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.
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
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 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 #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.