I've been down so long it looks like up to me

I'm actually seriously considering a revamp of this diary into a Richard Fariña themed journal, borrowing the title of his only novel "Been down so long it looks like up to me". I believe the title of his novel (along with the anthology of his work that was published after his untimely death "Been a long time coming and a long time gone") was taken from an old blues song, though I haven't found the original song anywhere I believe I did find one by Lee Hazelwood of the same title. But I'm digressing. I'm going to toy with ideas for such a layout, but the chances of anything but the title changing are slim -- since I have none of the necessary skills. I'm still trying to work out a way to have the comments box appear as a small, seperate window.

The point of all this is not that I want a new layout -- that idea only just occurred to me. The point is that I am once again in another of my moods. Did I say at the beginning of the week that working for Leicester News Service had restored my faith in journalism? I think it was just the novelty of doing something else for a change. On Monday classes start again, and we are back to the issue that I hate my course, and am being trained for a career that I'm really not sure I want.

But I don't know what I do want.

I figured that, once again, trying to deal with my moods just wasn't working out too well for me and so I should see a psychiatric counsellor. But the health center tell me I can only see one if I am referred by a doctor. I really didn't want to do that, I hate seeing doctors. I hate them looking at my medical records and every time questioning me about a suicide attempt. I hate even more having to explain it was not a sucide attempt, I spent that night in hospital because I just wasn't to be trusted with sharp objects. I made clear to them at the time I had no interest in killing myself, but it seems they ignored that in my records. I so do not want to have to see some disinterested and over-worked GP whose only interest is writing you a prescription and getting you out the door for the next patient.

I feel as if I am alone all of the time -- because even with people around, I just can't seem to relate to others. I feel cold and frustrated, and although I want someone to hold me and tell me it's all going to be okay, I can't seem to warm up enough to respond.

Sometimes I think what I need is a rest, to be someplace where I don't have to worry -- I don't need to think about essays and grades and exams, or about getting up for work, and if I'm earning enough and where my life is going. I can't go back home because it won't be like that. Sure, they'd say it will be -- and for a day or two, maybe it would, but before the end of a week they'd soon be bugging me to do something. And I don't think I could stand being around my Dad all day now he's retired. I certainly can't do it here, because there's bills and rent to pay and food to be bought.

I guess this all anyone ever wants -- and you have to work forty years of your life to get anything close to it, unless you're born into luxury.