It would be easier not to write. Easier, because I don't know what to write about. Nothing seems particularly interesting or inspiring. It all just seems flat, even though I suppose it's not.

I could write about how yesterday was the first day that I felt "stable". How I actually felt a bit good—not great—but good. Maybe this is a sign that I'm finally going to get better. Maybe the stability will stick (although, I worry that it won't...I mean, it's only been one day).

I could write about how I was in the ER for 24 hours last week because my suicidal thoughts got really bad, and I needed somewhere safe to be so that I wouldn't harm myself. How I was able to follow my safety plan, along with the help of the staff at the outpatient therapy program, and how that took some courage that I didn't know I had. I could mention how supportive my boyfriend an my parents were, taking care of me during that time. And give thanks to friends who sent their encouragement.

I could write about how I've felt so full of rage lately. Rage, irritability, and crankiness. How these feelings—which dominated my brain until yesterday—made me not like who I was.

Or, I could write about writing—or not writing. How it's been a struggle for me to come up with anything to write about. How it feels like the creative part of my brain is broken, and I'm worried that it's not coming back. I'm not used to this new "stability" and I don't know what it will look like. I hope that it will get a little bit better than this—that I'll enjoy writing again, and will feel able to do so. I hope that these meds that I'm taking aren't taking my creativity away. I hope that, eventually, they'll do the opposite.

Right now, I'm just trying to be patient, but it's really hard. I'm trying to write, but this is all I have in me. This is all I've got. I hope that next week I'll have something better for you; that I'll feel more inspired. I hope the creativity comes back again.