I’m trying to get back into a good habit, which is almost as hard as getting out of a bad one. And I’m still paralyzed, in many respects, because of the move and everything that came with it. In the chaos of recent days, in the constant frantic struggle to find and attempt to secure a little order, I’ve had neither the space, the time, nor the mental capacity for any other kind of work. Things still aren’t in their final places, and there’s a lot, and I mean a lot, to be done in the new house, but some kind of system has been restored, at least in terms of space. Time is still messy and unstructured, and I suspect this lack of structure in my time is leading to a similar lack of structure in my conscious self. It’s hard to feel connected to myself, not just in the profound sense, but in small ways and small everyday actions. You are yourself, but you’re also your environment; the self is extended and projected into its surroundings, and any disruption there disrupts the whole psyche.

I’m trying, then, to go back to my old handwriting work as a way of recovering my lost self more fully. I imagine that this habit, more than any of the other good habits I’ll try to adopt over the coming days, will give me a rhythm, a guide, a base on which to construct a way of life in this new house, and in this new time she and I are beginning together.

Part Three: Exercises

Part Three: Exercises

February 18, 1991

I’m returning to these exercises today in a vain attempt to gather up the floating pieces of myself. But this isn’t the right kind of pen for this paper. The ink’s running. I pick up the ballpoint instead, and these departures from my routine are a clear sign of fragmentation. So many—so many—things need tidying up (or, more accurately, sorting out) in the new house, and in myself and the people around me, that it’s quite overwhelming. And there’s the imminent journey to Montevideo, and probably from there to Maldonado, which is making everything feel much more chaotic. My position is that I simply cannot, and should not, make the journey, that the cost (psychologically speaking) would be too great. There’s no way out of it, though, and the cost of not going would be even greater. It’s the sort of situation that makes you schizophrenic, and which Laing calls a “position of checkmate.” (And there’s no one like a mother for creating these situations. She says, and believes, that she broke her hip because a gust of wind knocked her over. I, however, am convinced the wind came from her unconscious: a final, desperate effort to bring me to her side.) These days, my misfortunes weigh on me more heavily than ever before. My lack of freedom is total and I can feel time racing by at full tilt, dispiriting and fruitless. The anxiety building inside me is impossible to control. I’m putting on weight; my body’s getting more bloated by the day. And I smoke without stopping—and without enjoying it.