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.

I have no idea how to deal with all this, and all the while my desk is spilling over with things to do. There are things, too, that I have to do for myself, for pleasure, or to remind myself who I am, to subsist and existand I can’t do them. I can’t even create the necessary conditions in which to do them.

March 15