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 #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.