I just woke up after finally having slept the night. It is the morning, which is unusual for me; I usually sleep until at least 2pm providing nothing wakes me. While I got enough sleep, I have the whole day ahead of me and nothing meaningful to fill it with. My depression does not like this one bit. Suddenly everything comes crashing down on me. It is like that moment Elizabeth Wurtzel talks about in Prozac Nation, where one day you realise that your entire life is just awful, not worth living, a horror and a black blot on the white terrain of human existence. One morning you wake up afraid you are going to live. I want to cry. I hear the low rumble of the cars outside as they accelerate round the round about and go up the hill. Such is my life, going round and round, getting nowhere. I don’t even have the basics, such as sleep and a home. No where feels like home. Wherever I go, my senses are assaulted. The world intrudes through my walls. Yesterday I left my dad’s house where I was being woken at 10am by the neighbour. The neighbour is always in his yard hammering, working, making noise. The worst part is that I can’t complain because it is during the day. But when you can’t sleep at night, only during the day, it is torture. As a person with Delayed Sleep Phase Syndrome, 10am is like the middle of the night for me. I had taken some sleeping pills at daybreak and finally got to sleep, only to be woken two hours later. I dragged myself and my doona into another room but it was just as loud. Not even earplugs could block out the noise. I felt invaded and like there was no escape. I wanted to kill myself. I called my case worker and left a message on his answering phone but he didn’t call back. He never did. Finally I heaved my exhausted self into the car and drove to my mum’s place.

I don’t know where to start untangling the mess my life has become. But it would certainly help to have a home, a sanctuary away from people, noise and pollution. A place I can call my own. I have been everywhere the past few months as I search for some respite: on a farm, at my dad’s house, at my mum’s house, in hospital. My suitcase sits on the floor of my dad’s house untouched. I’m too depressed to unpack it. It may as well stay packed as I will probably use it again soon anyway.