I want to write. Um, yeah! That's whut yer doon!
No, I mean write. Like a story. But I have no imagination. Is that an excuse?

I'm not going to let this leisure time turn into sitting on the couch. But I'm not that girl anymore, am I? I still fear her. I still fight her. I still worry about the day that she might come back.

I feel - what? Happy. Content. Not content as in okay that's enough living but content in who I am. I'm looking forward to who I will become. I don't fear tomorrow, I welcome it. How nice. Maybe that's what I could write about. Beverly's own little Prozac Nation.