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Still not good, another day spent mostly in bed, necking fistfuls of tranquillisers at regular intervals, in between trying and failing to imagine being in a place where it's OK being me. But tomorrow real life returns and I shall try and get to yoga and see where that leaves me.

They say journalling it out is a good thing to do, but what does that mean? I think I've established the basics - I can't do this, and I'm not, I'm in bed, not doing it, so what's left to say? I mean, my girl is drifting away - she hasn't been able to signal yes or no in response to questions on my last two visits, which has been devastating, not knowing if she wants to be taken outside or whatever, not being able to get any sense of how she is, what would make her happier or piss her off more, but she's still with us, she still beams on hearing my voice and this is not nothing, even if it does feel like it sometimes. Maybe I just need to say the dying word sometimes, to look it right in the eye and be crushed by it for a while then realise I'm still here, she's still here, on we go. Don't know.

I can't imagine pleasure, or smiling or joy.

I'm grateful for: friends reaching out; for Son and Younger Daughter; for the end of the fucking festive season; bed; drugs

Love xxxx

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