I suppose one might call this stream-of-consciousness writing. I call it “I cannot sleep so I’m going to type out everything floating around in my head” writing. (pause to take medicine which I just remembered) (takes medicine and finishes milk) Tonight Rowland did exactly what I wanted. He listened without trying to fix my problem. I cried and he held me and that’s what I needed. I have a habit of coming to my own conclusions and solutions when given time, but sometimes in the interim I need someone to hold me and kiss my hair. That couch has seen a lot of tears. (I’m starting to be very fond of that couch) I think anyone that knows me would say my brain doesn’t work like most people’s, be that good or bad. My thought patterns are…unusual, to say the least. I share this with my sister Emily and my mother Elizabeth. I love the way I think. It can be difficult to follow, and when I’m manic it’s downright entertaining. (speaking of which, this is the part of the conversation where I stop and write down a list of stuff to do tomorrow) (scribbled down rough plan for tomorrow, brain back on-line) K, back to the thought pattern issue, according to all of the literature that I have found, a lack of ability to concentrate is common among symptomatic and non-symptomatic manic depressives. Back to Rowland, I feel bad about burdening him with my issues. Next Friday is going to be rough for him I think, and I don’t know whether he will want to see anyone or not. I understand if he wants to be alone to think, but I don’t want him to be alone if he is just hiding because he is sad. I was sad tonight but I didn’t hide, I shared what I was feeling, even though it was foolish and relatively unimportant. It relieved the mental stress that was building, and would have continued to build if I hadn’t told anyone. Now I an go about finding a seamstress who can hopefully “fix” this terrible dress that I have been informed I must wear. I wonder if it would be wrong of me to “cheat” and get the seamstress to pull in the waist of the dress so it looks less like a potato sack. (how this whole bridesmaid dress fiasco happened, I have no idea)(I found a darling dress that was flattering to everyone and not a bit hideous, and somehow that became an empire-waist, embroidered, beaded disaster with a small, inverted pleat train)(At least it isn’t gray, or ‘silver’)(no it’s a completely bland shade of royal blue that couldn’t look more prom if I wore a tiara in my hair)(if silver gloves get added to this ensemble I will put my ill-fitting sliver shoe clad foot down)(by taking off my gloves as soon as the ceremony and the pictures are over)(because I am a wuss which is why I’m in this mess in the first place)(I maintain that I will invite not a single person to my wedding that ever asked me when my “turn” was and what I wanted to “be” when I grew up)(bitter, I’m not bitter)(what are you talking about)(I swear that gray, I mean silver, dress that got destroyed after my sister’s wedding was an accident)(who knew that getting your train caught under a car tire could rip a bodice in half?)(other than the laws of physics and chiffon)

My brain has stopped for the moment so I will as well. As you can tell I will never be a great writer. Which is why I aspire to read great authors, not BE one.