Day 1 Shards of Sickness

Day one of an experiment that will be updated daily, weekly, or monthly, depending on when I have time or heart to write.

I am not a writer: words, letters, they don't form much an image to me as gifted others may see. Writing is not my forte; between grammar and spelling I hated English, even in college - where I avoided the subject as long as possible. I always dreaded the idea of my teacher droning on to a language which I would minimally use to such a perfectionist's state.

"Well, sir." you may ask, "Why are you writing?"

I'm writing as a suggestion from my former psychiatrist to relieve my depression, I no longer -nor have I ever really- possess the required income to continue my therapy and even through medication and doctoral help I still am not considered to be 'cured'... call me stubborn.

"If not a writer then what do you consider yourself, what is your occupation?"

No I cannot paint with words, I consider myself much more bold, I'm on the fringe enough to use a brush to paint my imagery. Or at least I considered myself an artist. It was always my fate, my mother owned a small advertising business and I was the one in the family with even a hint of natural talent towards graphics.
Until recently I enjoyed my talent: I turned my hobby into work, which was great! Doing what I thought I loved, but recently it all seems like work. I have people angry at me because I lost the muse I once had, I became dysfunctional and can't seem to produce anymore.

I really don't know what more to say. I don't understand what this is for. I don't understand this, nor did I understand therapy...

I just don't know.