Canon's Diary

Action without thought is empty; thought without action is blind – Goethe

While living with schizophrenia, I move between Tokyo and Osaka. Through this journal, I hope to quietly share moments from my daily life—and memories from the journey I’ve taken with my illness.

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Recording my Daily Life as a Diary

  • Morning with a Heart in Grip

    August 27, 2025, Wednesday.
    I came home from work and finished dinner with some leftover keema curry I had prepared earlier. For some reason, I felt like drinking red wine tonight—something I hadn’t done in a while—so I bought a cheap bottle of Bordeaux at the convenience store. Now I’m enjoying it with a bit of cheese I found at home. The TV is off. There’s no music playing. Only the soft hum of the fan turning, and from outside, the occasional sound of cars or motorbikes passing by. A new ceiling light, installed through the hometown tax system, shines above me. Its warm, incandescent-like LED glow casts a gentler light than I’ve ever had in this room.

    ーーー

    From 1991, when I joined my first company after graduating from university and receiving a diagnosis of depression, until around 2000—and again from 2000 to about 2008, after I was diagnosed with schizophrenia—going to work felt unbearable.
    My first job was at an audio equipment manufacturer, in a factory located between Ōmori and Kamata along the Keihin-Tōhoku Line. The neighborhood was crowded with small workshops and factories. I was assigned to design the chassis of projection TVs. It was an unfortunate beginning: a new graduate entering a company already weighed down by depression. Getting up in the morning was nearly impossible, so I was always late—running with my bag slung over my shoulder from Ōmori Station to the factory. My previous experience as a waiter in university had taught me the spirit of service, but such a mindset was useless in engineering design. I remember clearly the sense of despair that overcame me.

    Symptoms of depression differ from person to person, but in my case, it felt as if my heart was gripped tightly by unseen hands. Nights were sleepless, mornings unbearable. I was often late, and my boss scolded me repeatedly. I panicked: How can I possibly survive decades of working life like this? Mental illness was poorly understood then; people looked at it with suspicion, so I kept silent about my condition. But the truth was, I was suffering deeply. Concentrating on work was impossible. I didn’t yet know how to manage my medication—taking too much sometimes sent me into an unnatural high, while other times I fell into crushing despair. I couldn’t control my own emotions. In that state, it was impossible to do my job properly. I made simple mistakes, failed to learn procedures, and was met with shouts from superiors and ridicule from colleagues. To cover up my incompetence, I would play the fool, trying to deflect their criticism. But inside, I was desperate—trying to catch up, trying not to burden others. Now I realize that may have been the problem. Mental illness is a real illness; it cannot be cured by sheer effort or a change in mindset. What I truly needed then was rest.

    Some still believe that mental illness can be overcome by sheer willpower, but at that time such misunderstanding was even more common. Mental illness is not something cured by effort alone. Think of diabetes, a herniated disc, or leukemia—would you tell someone with those conditions to overcome them through willpower? Mental illness is no different. Once it progresses beyond a certain point, the person cannot manage it alone. They need medical treatment. Yet even some doctors and pharmacists lacked understanding. I remember once, when receiving a prescription for antidepressants, a pharmacist sneered: “This is all about willpower.” At home, I found little support either. My mother would tell me to “pray more,” while my father would only warn, “Don’t lose your mind.” I felt I could no longer bear living in that house in Naruse. Just then, a transfer to Shizuoka was decided.

    In Shizuoka, I met a kind friend. For the first time, someone listened to my complaints without judgment, took me out for drinks, stayed by my side. How many times in life can one encounter such a friend? We were almost always together there. Perhaps that’s what friendship is meant to be. I was deeply grateful. To him, it may have been nothing more than kindness. But for me, it became dependence. And dependence, I feared, was not true friendship. Still, I could not help but rely on him. That life lasted just over a year, until 1998, when I was transferred again—this time to Yamanashi.

    ーーー

    Today, my wife called me, unusually. We spoke for nearly an hour. About changing her mobile phone, about my mother’s recent state, about whether we should get another dog someday, about her parents in Yamanashi. The topics were trivial, yet the conversation lingered. Everyone is trying to adapt to new circumstances—not just me. My wife, my mother, each of them in their own way. Perhaps we are all learning to adjust our use of time. And maybe that is why I, too, feel I can move forward again.

    Like the lingering aftertaste of tonight’s red wine, I want to believe in the small steps ahead.

  • The Day I Collapsed

    August 25, 2025. It was mostly a clear day. The heat outside was said to be relentless, but under COVID restrictions I did not leave my apartment, and so the true feel of the day remained beyond me. From my window I could see clouds drifting at times, but unlike yesterday, there was no thunder or sudden downpour. The day passed quietly. I worked from home—my first day back after a medical leave. Until yesterday, even the slightest mental strain would trigger a fever, but today I managed to perform at my usual level.
    My one-room apartment, rented for a solo assignment, has no space for a proper desk, so I sat in a deep chair in front of the television, balancing my laptop on my knees. Without an external monitor or mouse, I made do well enough. The only disturbance was the occasional jarring noise of roadwork drifting through the walls.

    ーーー

    During my lunch break, memories surfaced. The onset of my depression, ironically, was rooted in an event at the part-time job I loved most: waiting tables. In my university years, I had thrown myself into every challenge, eager to remake myself. By my junior year I was leading the tennis club and taking responsibility for training younger staff at my restaurant job. One day, as I moved across the dining floor, I noticed a colleague instinctively adjusting to complement my movements. That realization—teamwork—struck me with quiet awe. Though restaurant work was not sport, to me it was no less than a team sport. Recognizing that truth, I fell deeply into the work.

    But juggling academics, tennis, and my job took a toll on both my body and mind. In my desperate bid to reinvent myself, I grew increasingly responsible, perfectionist, and unable to apply any brakes to my own effort.
    What I learned at the Machida restaurant could be summarized in simple terms: serve with heart; cooperate and care for others; read the situation and respond appropriately; apologize for mistakes; express gratitude to colleagues. For someone who had never managed group work in school, these lessons marked real growth. By the end, I even carried a measure of confidence, enough to pass along guidance to my juniors.

    Then came the day that undid me. After a long shift on my feet—eight hours of carrying trays—I worked with a younger colleague on the closing tasks: sweeping and mopping the floor, restocking paper towels, straightening menus and chairs, scrubbing both restrooms, brushing down the kitchen, polishing counters and dishes. We did this for 620 yen an hour, nearly every day. In hindsight, the pay was poor, but naïve as I was, I never questioned it. The work was grueling, yet bearable when shared with others.

    But my colleague thought differently. That day, he suddenly set down his cleaning rag.
    “What’s wrong? Let’s finish up and get out of here,” I said. He looked at me with an unfamiliar expression.
    “Senpai, I can’t do this work anymore.”
    “What? Why now? We’ve always done this.”
    “Why do we have to do this kind of work at all?”
    “What do you mean? If we don’t, others will suffer—the morning crew, the chefs…”
    “Let me be frank, Masato” he said.

    What followed shattered the fragile confidence I had built.

    “Not everyone is like you, Senpai. No one else is thinking about others.”

    In that instant something inside me snapped. My mind went blank, then flooded with unwelcome clarity. Work is not charity; it is survival. People feign cooperation, but in truth think only of themselves. Encouragement, rebuke, gratitude, teamwork—so much of it is no more than a façade required for social life. How foolish I had been to believe in it sincerely. My body was that of a university student, yet my heart still that of a child. Inside me, something collapsed with a terrible crash. I could no longer speak. My chest tightened with pain. Standing became unbearable. Somehow I made it home, only to collapse into the living room, unable to move. The next day I still could not will myself to act. Breathing itself felt impossible. Alarmed, my parents took me to a psychiatrist, where I received my first diagnosis of depression.

    ーーー

    Now, years later, I sit in my apartment after dinner. The room has grown dark. The hum of the fan mixes with the distant rumble of a Hankyu train. I no longer drink scotch until sleep; instead I watch television, listen to jazz, make plans, or think of my distant family. It feels far richer than drowning myself in alcohol. Humans are creatures capable of recognizing past mistakes and choosing to change their future course. I am living proof of that.

    I have come to understand: it is more important to act with conviction than to be swept up in words or information. For in most cases, words are little more than decoration.

  • Amid Thunder and Rain

    Sunday, August 24, 2025.
    I just finished dinner and I’m now in my apartment in Osaka. During the day, the temperature soared above 36°C, but around 7 p.m., as darkness fell, the sound of rain began, soon followed by rumbling thunder. Since I haven’t drawn the curtains, the lightning flashes reflect strongly across my dimly lit room, colored by the warm glow of an incandescent bulb. And yet, instead of fear, I feel a sense of relief—the long-awaited rain has finally come.

    It’s been a while since I last posted. Please forgive me. I was overwhelmed with work, and the stress affected my autonomic nervous system, leaving me unwell and in need of rest. What follows are fragments from my personal notes during my absence. I have many such records, and I’d like to use them as a way to gradually resume posting.

    Wednesday, July 16, 2025.
    From early morning, cicadas have been crying. Around Kodera Pond and the library lies a small forest, an ideal habitat for them. Opening the window made their chorus even louder. The morning was sunny, but by afternoon the wind grew stronger, and thunder rolled from time to time, bringing unstable weather. Lately, the climate shifts so rapidly. During such times, my autonomic nervous system easily falters, leaving me feeling unwell.

    At work, I had four projects that needed to be handed over to the design department. Yesterday, I held a meeting with them and successfully transferred all four. I also completed the technical documentation. Now, as long as I support the exchange of information between clients and designers, the projects should proceed smoothly. Next week, I’ll return to Tokyo for some administrative errands, so I wanted to clear up the more time-consuming tasks beforehand. It’s a relief to have managed that. This morning will end with an internal meeting in the department.

    For lunch, I had spicy chige soup and a glass-noodle salad at the company cafeteria. In summer, with salt easily lost through sweat, I often crave spicy food. I think the reason I enjoy project management is deeply tied to my college days working as a waiter.

    My experiences at the Kabukicho branch were bitter at first, but after completing training, I began working as an opening staff member at a new restaurant near Machida Station. The place was in the basement of a building—its ground floor occupied by Kumi-do Bookstore—operating from 9 a.m. to 9:45 p.m. I took customers’ orders, relayed them to the kitchen, prepared coffee and parfaits, fetched cakes from the showcase, delivered dishes, handled complaints, changed water glasses, cleared plates, and supported customers until they left satisfied. A waiter serves as the bridge between the restaurant and the guests. Entering university so naïve about the world, this part-time job became my true education in society. In many ways, it parallels what I do now as a project manager.

    For someone like me, raised with lessons of mercy and prayer but lacking social resilience, working as a waiter was the best possible choice. It was a job of service, where good deeds translated directly into customer satisfaction. Extending a hand to those in need—whether by serving food, picking up a dropped fork, or cleaning up a spill—mirrored the same spirit. Above all, the words “Thank you” brought me the deepest joy. They made me feel that I was genuinely useful to others.

    Of course, it wasn’t all pleasant. Training was strict. The floor manager, once part of a biker gang, was hot-tempered and sometimes grabbed me by the collar as if to strike me. Yet, as an inexperienced student, I truly had countless things to learn about social life. Though quick to anger, the manager was also deeply human, and he hammered proper manners into me.

    Since I had daytime classes, I usually worked shifts from 5 p.m. to closing at 11 p.m. on weekdays, and from 2 p.m. to 11 p.m. on weekends. I walked the floor nonstop, cleaned the restaurant after closing, and scrubbed the kitchen with a deck brush. With little money or time for meals, I often survived on just a cream puff sold at the store. My weight dropped to 58 kg, yet I felt oddly suited to the job. Somewhere deep inside, I believed: if I stay here, I’ll learn something valuable.

    Though I was often yelled at by chefs and full-time staff—terrifying at the time—looking back, I feel I must thank them.

    The rain and thunder still haven’t stopped. In fact, last Thursday, I came down with COVID and spiked a fever of 38.9°C. I went to the hospital, received antipyretics, and my fever subsided in about two days, but I still cannot return to the office until Tuesday. The news has been reporting a surge in COVID cases lately. I plan to work from home on Monday, but for now, I simply want to rest while listening to the sound of the rain.

  • A Day to Applaud an 80-Year-Old Player

    Tuesday, July 15th.
    Because of the rain yesterday, the morning air was cool. The sky was lightly overcast, but the forecast said it would turn into scorching sunshine by afternoon.
    Last night, I cooked about two cups of rice, so this morning I enjoyed green onion soy sauce rice with miso soup.

    It’s been two and a half months since I moved to Osaka on April 26th. With my father’s passing, the days flew by, filled with arranging the funeral, managing inheritance procedures, changing registrations, and making trips back and forth between Osaka and Tokyo. Even so, I wanted to live each moment with care, so I challenged myself to cook for the first time. I also started keeping a household budget. In Osaka, I joined a new tennis school. And as much as possible, I’ve kept a daily journal to record my days.

    Every day has been full of new sights, new customs, and new people.
    But humans are truly creatures of adaptation.
    The new life that once sparkled with excitement, the shopping street by Tomita Station, the view of Kodera Pond and the library from my apartment—these are all slowly shifting from “something special” to just “everyday scenery.” That first flutter of excitement I felt was precious beyond words.

    At lunch, I had a set meal of mapo eggplant at the company cafeteria, dining with some colleagues. When I took a photo of my lunch, they looked at me curiously and asked, “Do you always take pictures like that?”
    I smiled and replied, “Yeah, I send them to my family or put them in my journal.”

    After another hectic day at work, I came home in the evening and cooked dinner—some cabbage soup I’d made in advance, sautéed spinach, ham, and eggs, and a simple bowl of rice with raw egg.

    Just recently, the Wimbledon final wrapped up, where Jannik Sinner defeated Carlos Alcaraz to claim his first Wimbledon title. The day before yesterday, I woke up at 3 a.m. just to watch Sinner serving for the championship, completely thrilled. But today, I found myself watching a YouTube video of the Kanto singles tournament for players over 80.

    Even at that age, they’re out there playing official singles matches. Of course, they can’t hit powerful shots like the younger players. But I found myself applauding these 80-year-old competitors even more enthusiastically than I did during the Wimbledon final.

    It reminded me that I, too, can continue on with my tennis journey. It was a clear reaffirmation that tennis is truly a lifelong sport.

    As the extraordinary becomes ordinary, there may be fewer things left for me to write about in my journal.
    But I still want to keep capturing the small moments of wonder, joy, and surprise I find in everyday life.

  • A scorching Sunday: Tennis, soba, and pasta

    Sunday, July 13th.
    It’s scorching hot just stepping outside during the day. The sun is blinding.
    I hopped on my bike to go shopping, only to find it had soaked up the sun’s heat under its black cover—so hot it could fry an egg. After riding, I took off my helmet and my head was drenched in sweat.

    I recently bought a bigger backpack, so I stuffed my groceries into it and carried them home. Still, once you add drinks and such, it’s heavy—and above all, it’s hot.
    A motorcycle ride is supposed to let you cut through the air with a pleasant breeze, but on a day like today, the wind is lukewarm and anything but refreshing. Waiting at a traffic light, all I could think was, “Come on, give me a break…”

    I squinted under the blazing sun as I walked from the parking lot to my apartment. I must have had quite the grimace on my face.

    The moment I got inside, I switched on the air conditioner and turned on the fan. I wiped my face with a towel and let the fan breeze wash over me—a small moment of bliss.
    I had tennis lessons at 2 PM, so I needed to have lunch early. I turned on the kitchen fan, boiled soba noodles on one burner, and simmered pork, carrots, and cabbage on the other. I added bonito stock to the soba sauce for extra flavor, then poured the hot soup over the noodles in a bowl and topped it with chopped green onions.
    Maybe I’m the only one who craves hot soba on a day like this.

    After lunch, feeling cozy and satisfied, I headed out for my tennis lesson.
    Just like yesterday, there were only four students today, so I got to hit plenty of balls—great practice. The coach who’s been in charge of my lessons since July is still relatively new to me. We haven’t had that many rallies yet, but he’s really good. I wonder who he is. Once we’re more familiar, I’d like to ask about his background.

    It was another tough session, and my body’s pretty beat. If I don’t keep my swing relaxed, the fatigue sticks with me. Coaches do this all day, every day—it’s honestly impressive.

    Back home, it was time to prepare dinner. Tonight was spinach and bacon cream pasta.
    While the pasta boiled, I sautéed the bacon and spinach, added milk and brought it to a gentle boil. A bit of grated cheese and garlic finished off the sauce, then I tossed in the pasta. Adding a little pasta water at the end seems to keep it from getting clumpy. I also made a salad with some lettuce that was on its last legs. It all turned out delicious—a perfect way to wrap up the day. I let out a contented sigh.

    Oh right, today’s the Wimbledon final. Sinner vs. Alcaraz. I’d love to watch it, but it doesn’t start until midnight…
    No way I can pull that off, not with work starting up again tomorrow.
    Still, I’ve got tomorrow’s tasks pretty much sorted in my head. Today’s lesson was intense and left me a bit stressed, so maybe I’ll try a weekday evening lesson next time.

  • Long Twilights and Towering Summer Clouds

    Saturday, July 12th. Towering cumulus clouds are rising in the sky.
    In Osaka, the temperature reached a sweltering 36°C—a true midsummer day.
    Ever since I adjusted my medication back to the previous dosage, that foggy feeling in my head has lifted.
    Yesterday, work went smoothly enough. But as quitting time drew near, fatigue started to catch up with me.
    I went home, had dinner, and promptly fell asleep. I didn’t even manage to write in my journal.
    According to my smartwatch, I was already asleep by 9 p.m.
    When I woke up this morning around 6:30, I realized I had slept for nine and a half hours.
    I must have been more tired than I thought.

    This morning, I went to a clinic by Takatsuki Station for my annual health check.
    After drinking barium and having my stomach X-rayed, I felt pretty nauseous.
    But when the doctor went over the results with me, he said everything was generally fine. That was a relief.
    By then, I was also quite hungry from skipping breakfast, so I used a coupon they gave me and grabbed a sandwich at a café in the same building.

    Back home, I spent some time gazing absently out the window at the cumulus clouds.
    They drifted on the wind, changing shape moment by moment.
    It was a truly summer sky, though the view lost some of its charm because of the scaffolding still set up on the apartment’s exterior for repairs.
    With a slight feeling of confinement, I passed the time quietly in my room.

    Then, breaking the silence, my phone buzzed—a LINE message from my sister.
    She was over at our mother’s house in Naruse.
    It seemed she had taken care of the paperwork to transfer funds from our late father’s frozen bank account into our mother’s name,
    as well as handling the contact needed to change the internet contract out of his name.
    It’s a real help when my sister comes by like this.
    If I had to travel from Osaka to handle everything myself, it would take far too long.
    All that’s left now is probably to go to the Legal Affairs Bureau to take care of the house inheritance.
    Apparently, I can make an appointment online, but I was still feeling sick from the barium today, so I decided to leave that for tomorrow.

    For dinner, I had curry, salad, and a bowl of miso soup.
    Later tonight, I have a tennis lesson booked.
    After a long workweek, the stress has really piled up, so I’m looking forward to working up a good sweat and blowing off some steam.

    Even so, it strikes me how long the days have become.
    It’s already past seven, and yet there’s still a faint light lingering in the sky.
    As I walked past the railroad crossing, I saw a Hankyu train just beginning to turn on its headlights.
    Between the gaps of distant buildings, I could still spot some of those towering summer clouds.

  • July 10 – A Day in the Fog

    Thursday. It’s somewhat cloudy. My head feels a bit hazy—probably due to the increased medication. On my way to work, I suddenly wondered if I had brushed my teeth this morning. When I touched my cheek, I could tell I had shaved. My teeth felt smooth too, so I probably did brush them, but I must have still been half-asleep. I had no memory of doing it.
    It left me feeling uneasy, so I stopped by a convenience store, bought a toothbrush set, and brushed my teeth again in the office washroom.

    The whole day felt like I was surrounded by a fog. I couldn’t really focus. Thankfully, there wasn’t too much work, so I managed somehow. But if this continues tomorrow, it’ll be a problem. It’s been years since I’ve felt like this, so I’ve decided to go back to my previous dosage and see how it goes.
    Sorry, but that’s all for today.

  • Let it be, but never neglect your efforts

    July 9th, Wednesday. Sunny.
    Since the rainy season ended early this year, summer will likely be long.
    For breakfast, I fried up some frozen fried rice.
    I was supposed to have a tennis lesson yesterday, but had to work a little overtime, so I missed it.
    I thought about rescheduling it for today, but decided against it—I wanted some time to simply unwind.

    Today, I got through a full day of work, came home, had dinner, and now I’m relaxing.
    It’ll probably still take some time before I truly feel I have room to breathe in life.
    By “room,” I don’t mean financially—I mean space within my own heart.
    Even so, little by little, I feel my rhythm falling into place.

    The friction with my wife, my concerns for my mother, and somewhere inside me, a feeling almost like resignation.
    How will I live from here on?

    There’s no need to overthink it.
    Everything will work out in its own way.
    But I mustn’t neglect my efforts.

    Maybe tomorrow, if I feel like it, I’ll pick up my racket for a bit.
    Tonight’s dinner was rice porridge made with a cabbage soup I’d prepared earlier.
    Lately, cabbage has practically become my staple food.

  • Going to Work Lightly Dressed, Staying Connected on LINE

    Tuesday, July 8th.
    I still had some bread left over from when I made French toast on Sunday, so for breakfast today, I toasted a slice, topped it with lettuce, ham, and cheese, and enjoyed it. I toasted the bread in a frying pan with some butter. Who needs a toaster when a frying pan does the job so well? It’s surprisingly versatile.

    Today was cloudy, so the heat was more bearable, and the commute wasn’t as tough. The other day I had symptoms close to heatstroke, so I decided to stop wearing a suit to work. Now I go in a Nike cap, T-shirt, light track jacket, and black high-cut Converse sneakers—casual wear. I did feel a bit awkward suddenly changing my style, but most of my colleagues dress similarly. Besides, I change into work overalls at the company anyway, so it was no problem at all. I can keep my work clothes in my locker there, and they even wash them for us. That means fewer loads of laundry at home, which is really convenient. More than anything, it’s so much more comfortable walking outside on these summer days. I wonder why I didn’t start doing this sooner.

    Once work begins, I spend almost the entire day staring at my computer screen, typing out emails or glued to CAD drawings. Even with a lunch break, my concentration inevitably wanes, so I deliberately pause now and then—let out a slow breath, close my eyes, and turn my attention inward. I take a deep breath. Or I have a bit of idle chat with my coworkers. Sometimes, just for a change of pace, I spend a few minutes drafting posts like this one. During today’s lunch break, I put on my earphones and quietly listened to Aoi Teshima singing “The Rose.”

    While I’m in Osaka, I try to message my mother and wife on LINE as often as I can. Lately, I’ve been sending them pictures of what I’ve cooked or eaten that day. The replies are usually simple: “Oh,” or “Looks good.” But I’d still worry if the conversation ever completely dried up. I want to know how things are going back in Tokyo, even if just a little. Of course, it also helps ease the loneliness of living by myself. When we’re face to face, I sometimes get unreasonably irritated, so maybe this bit of distance is just right for now.

    Tonight’s dinner was some cabbage soup I’d made ahead of time, paired with rice and raw egg, plus shredded cabbage. I took a photo of that too, planning to send it to my family. Lately, my wife teases me on LINE, saying, “Don’t you ever get tired of eating that?” Like I’ve written before, little comments like that can linger in my chest more than I’d like.

  • Conversations That Begin with “But”

    Monday, July 7th.
    Clear skies.
    It’s Tanabata today, but I have no plans to meet my own Orihime.
    She’s probably busy working at the pharmacy in Tokyo, and I’m here in Osaka, having just finished my tenth technical document.

    I wonder when it started—this gradual growing apart.
    Maybe it’s because I wrote about my wife in yesterday’s post that I find myself thinking about it again.
    Whenever we talk, she almost mechanically disagrees with me.
    Her replies always begin with “But…”

    We’ve been together for over 25 years, so I know by now that it’s unconscious on her part.
    When we first met, it didn’t bother me much.
    “I guess she has her own way of seeing things.”
    That’s all I thought back then.

    But as we spent more years together, I began to realize it wasn’t that simple.
    She’s not expressing a different opinion based on her own beliefs.
    Perhaps, by denying me, she’s somehow managing to hold herself together.

    Since realizing that, I can’t talk to her the way I used to.
    It’s still manageable over LINE, but face-to-face conversations have become a little hard.
    Now that we’re living separate lives in Tokyo and Osaka, maybe I should use this time to sort out my feelings.

    For lunch, I had chirashi sushi and mozuku seaweed soup at the company cafeteria.
    There was also a star-shaped croquette, in the spirit of Tanabata.
    It’s been a while since I’ve eaten something vinegary.
    For the sake of better nutrition, maybe I’ll start adding dishes like that to our meals at home.