Canon's Diary

I woke up at six in the morning. I’d gone to bed after midnight the night before, so I didn’t get quite enough sleep. Still, thanks to a proper bath, I didn’t feel too worn out. I couldn’t see the weather outside, but judging from the light seeping through the curtains, I could guess it was cloudy.
I slipped on a newly tailored suit. My unruly hair has grown down to my collar lately, so a hat has become essential when I go out.

Just as I was about to leave, my father asked, “Osaka today?”
I simply replied, “Yeah,” and pulled the suitcase I’d left by the door.
It was heavier than last week’s — I’d packed clothes for a full week, and clearly overdid it.
The weight twisted my wrist as I rolled it out the door.

My parents still haven’t quite come to terms with the fact that I’m now stationed in Osaka.
We don’t talk much to begin with, and I’ve told them I’ll likely return to Tokyo for half the month, so they probably think not much has changed.
And that’s fine.

On the train from Naruse to Shin-Yokohama, I booked a Shinkansen ticket on my phone.
All the departures were nearly full, and the only seat I could get was the middle of a three-seater row.
Feeling cramped and self-conscious, I ate breakfast on board.
The window shade was down, so I couldn’t see the scenery — I could only close my eyes.
The seat trembled with a constant vibration.
As the train entered a tunnel, the roaring sound grew louder, and the pressure change pressed against my eardrums.

According to The Courage to Be Disliked, time flows not as a continuum, but as a string of “now” moments. Only the present truly exists. The past lives only in memory, and we shouldn’t be bound by it. What matters is whether we can act now. Adlerian psychology even denies the concept of trauma.
Can I really live that way?

Twenty-five years ago, I was diagnosed with schizophrenia. But it wasn’t something that happened suddenly one day. It was more like — the unease I’d felt since childhood finally got a name. There were days when I felt that something terrifying lived inside me, and I was constantly afraid of it.
Looking back now, I think that was already the shadow of the illness beginning to take shape. Thankfully, with medication, I can now live a nearly normal life. But it’s a life that only holds together because I take the medicine. —but without it, I wouldn’t last even a day. It took me many long years to reach this stable point.

I’ve rarely spoken of this illness outside my family. But from now on, little by little, I want to begin writing about it. Not to put a period on the past, but to understand where I stand now, to give my best to the present moment, and to welcome whatever future may come.