today has not been an easy day. I almost had a full-on emotional meltdown last night, and today I made an appointment to go back to counseling.

I want to write about it and I don’t want to write about it. I actually wrote this humongous entry that I have saved as a draft, with a personal timeline of emotional lows and highs, plus some rambling about my current/recent state.

I hate being in this headspace…like being in a cave where you can’t find the opening.

so instead I’m going to grab a random writing prompt and see where it takes me.

Write about a time when people around you were taking too many pictures.

Which is funny, because off the top of my head, I don’t remember any time where there was too much picture-taking.

What occurs to me first is a time with not enough picture-taking. Last year I got a card from my favorite aunt with a couple of old photographs, one of which was of me at my high-school graduation. It’s sunny, and I’m wearing the green cap and gown with my favorite little sunglasses, back when I could manage to wear non-prescription sunglasses for a little bit at a time. My hair is blond near the tips, splaying out wildly under the cap, framing and not-framing my face.

When I saw the photo, I was surprised at how young I looked, how skinny: the kid who’d never even been as far north as Oregon, just getting started with everything. What I remember feeling is unhappy, irritable, lonely. Happy only to be done with it, but unappreciated. I wanted a party.

And I feel embarrassed at my…what? Selfishness, which doesn’t make sense, since it was one of those rare life-moments when one is supposed to be the center of attention.

Details I don’t remember, which is one of those constant frustrations I have in describing my life: I know what it *felt* like, I can feel that roiling in my head, but I can’t tell you anything more than these vague images, looking down into the amphitheater, the last time I’d ever sit on the benches where I ate lunch and played cards for four years.

Now I have this uneasy and yet entirely overwhelming feeling of saying too much, the wrong things, of expressing things that aren’t interesting even to me.

Boring, boring, boring.

I’m not a writer; I haven’t been a writer practially since the q dissolved 4 years ago. I don’t even know what I have to say anymore, or whether I had anything to say in the first place.