Mild hope

I’m having a mild sensation of hope, and I’m not sure whether I want to give in to it. My friend asked me to move in with her. It’s only for six months, so it’s temporary, but she is so full of love. Her son lives with her part-time and he is very lively, and I have a feeling that would be good for me too. It would be good for me to be a part of a family. It is something I have missed. I want to feel like I belong somewhere and like I’m a part of a family.

Green machine

I finally went to Costco. I’ve had a membership for three years but in the last one year I hadn’t used it. I think I’m ready to start paying attention to my diet. I bought one of those green drinks. It’s a big bottle and says, finish within seven days of opening. My goodness. There’s no way I can finish that huge bottle in seven days! Unless I drink it every day. It’s supposed to be good for you. It has kale and apple and kiwi and several other unpalatable things in it. It tastes just like it looks: not good. It’s green and it tastes green and I’d rather plug my nose while downing it. But it’s the only way I’ll get my greens in. I otherwise don’t eat anything green.

My roommate is in bed. I’ll be thankful for that because I hate it when she’s up. I just hate having to share my living space with other people. Don’t have a choice right now. I am feeling that green drink hit hard in my stomach.

The thing is, I don’t have a difficult life. I have to keep telling myself that. Yes, it used to be full of difficult things, moments, situations. But all that is in the past. I actually have a pretty easy life, compared to some. I don’t have children to be responsible for, although sometimes I think I would rather have others to take care of, with taking care of myself as a by-product because I don’t do well at taking care of myself to begin with. My job is, for the most part, easy, though it may seem challenging at times. The most challenging part is when boredom hits and I have to do menial tasks that don’t challenge me.

My life feels difficult. It feels heavy, and oppressive, and challenging. Often I find it difficult to get through one day. I find myself wanting to hide out in my car during breaks at work, because I don’t want to be there. I don’t want to be anywhere. I just don’t want to be. Then, for moments and small glimpses, I see hope in babies sitting in shopping carts, innocent beings that need to be protected and loved and cherished. There is no exchange of love in my life. The closest I come to love is loving my therapist because he is patient and kind and always there for me, once a week every week.

Why is it that I can’t get out of bed? That’s my big question. It’s what therapy discussions revolve around. I don’t get out of bed for myself but I do get out of bed for others, like for going to work. I miss social engagements because of being in bed. I keep to myself. I isolate. Somehow I feel protected and safe in bed, but it’s also beginning to be the source of nightmares. I do have nice dreams, of chocolate cake and things like that, but I also have bad thoughts that perpetuate my conscience. How do I keep myself safe from all of the bad people out there? Stay in bed all day?

I’m going to drink tonight. It’s not the smartest thing for me to do, but it’s what I’m going to do.


Happy Thanksgiving to me. I’m alone. I’ve been alone all day. In fact, I stayed in bed all day. I just got up to microwave a frozen meal and then I spent an hour in an online chat room trying to connect with strangers so that I wouldn’t feel so lonely. Sometimes I like being alone. Not with others. I have my bed to keep my company. And my teddy bear, in my 30’s. I do still sleep with my stuffed animal.

I’m glad I didn’t have alcohol tonight. It would have just messed with my dehydrated constitution, which is delicately balanced on me having not eaten all day until the evening. I was going to go to the store to get a bottle of wine, but decided against it, because that would mean me having to actually go out there, into the cold night, and I’m perfectly happy sitting here in my warm blanket. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t enjoy company. But the company I was supposed to have didn’t end up working out, and I had no backup plans. I think I’m going to be spending the next three days, alone in bed. I wish I didn’t do that. But I cannot think of anything I’d rather do, than be in bed. It’s a lonely and meaningless life, that way.

Learning how to live again

I tend to hate myself. Really. I don’t like myself. I see of myself as a bad person. It’s not helpful with my outlook on life. I seem to think I have this really hard life, when in actuality, I don’t have a hard life right now. It used to be difficult, but now it’s perhaps just the memory of the difficulties that I am living with. But I see myself as a bad person because I was told I am bad. Of the six years that I was married, all throughout those years, I was told I am a “bad girl” by my ex-husband. He beat me down. He wore me down on the self worth. And now it’s my job to build that back up again. I’m not a bank robber and I’m not a murderer. I stole a few things when I was a kid. My brother and I stole toys from each other. But that’s about the worst I’ve done. I was always a good student, and a good citizen. I’m actually a good person, noble, humble (maybe too much), kind, respectful, caring, generous, concerned for others’ well-being sort of person. I do well with taking care of others. I’m a nice person. I just don’t believe it.

I was told I was a bad person. That is in the past. I need to start thinking of myself as good, and as deserving. I deserve good things in life. I treated myself to sushi and sake tonight. It was really delicious. I had seaweed salad as well. I’m really glad I can afford to go out to dinner, because some people cannot afford that. Food is a big expense in my life. I just need to live on my own again one day, and that means rent will be a big expense one day too. I am a good person. Keep telling myself that and maybe one day I will believe it.

Question of the hospital

Do I go? Do I not go? The question has been on my mind. Of course, I really want to be in the hospital. I see it as kind of a sanctuary from real life. In reality, it’s not that. It’s for acutely suicidal people, and we should keep the bed availability for those who really need it. But what if I am in crisis? What if I do really need it? It’s hard to tell these days. I so just want my life to be over with, or easier. One of the two. My mom would see it as a failure if I went. I think my brother wouldn’t judge. My therapist is trying to help keep me out of the hospital. If I wanted to be taken care of, go to a four star hotel and resort and order room service. That would be cheaper too. Cheaper than going into the hospital. The hospital is over $1,000 per night. It’s not about what people think. It’s about what I need. What I need is help.

What I need is a medication change. I’m on Latuda and Lexapro. I’ve been on the same medications for over six months, and for the last few months, I can’t get out of bed on the weekends. Try harder, they say. Why can you get up for work but not for yourself on the weekends? I spent all weekend in bed again. Friday night through Monday morning. It was miserable. I ignored all text messages and phone calls. I declined three social engagements. I could have been out enjoying the weekend. I could have gone for a hike in the wide open air. I could have had coffee at a coffee shop. But instead I stayed in bed and let all of those opportunities pass by me.

I want to spend this holiday weekend in the hospital so work won’t miss me. They won’t even know I was gone. If the hospital discharges me within a few days. I can’t afford to miss work because I don’t want to get fired. My health insurance is with them. I need to keep that. I don’t want to have to find a new job again. That was stressful. I’ll keep the one I have, thank you very much. The job isn’t that hard. Tolerating it is. I don’t like it, but it’s a job and for now it pays my bills. I need to be able to afford to live and to be independent. I don’t know how people manage to live on disability, but I’ve never been on it. My disability got denied and I have to not be working to apply anyway. If I can work, I don’t need it. But, oh, would I like to have a mental break from life and not have to work. Maybe work is part of my healing journey? Maybe through work I find a way to wellness? I feel worse on the weekends when I have nothing to do. I can’t even pick up a book to read. I started reading a book last week, the one from the little library at work, second hand books. But I couldn’t even pick up that while I was wasting away the weekend hibernating in my bed. I just layed there and waited for the hours to pass, wishing they wouldn’t. Wishing life would just stand still forever, and that time wouldn’t progress. Haven’t you ever felt that way? Well, that’s my way of wishing I weren’t alive. But I’m sure you, reader, can relate on some level.

Just writing this helps me to feel a little better. To have it written out on virtual ‘paper’. I still don’t know if I’m going to go inpatient. I’ll discuss that with my therapist tomorrow. I’m so glad to have him. It’s such a normal thing for someone in DBSA to go inpatient. It shouldn’t be normal for me, on my scale of what is ‘normal’. I stopped going to the hospital eleven months ago. Other people can go, but not me. I do need a medication change, and I haven’t gotten in to see a psychiatrist. My Dr. will take cash only, because of the bankruptcy. I could afford to pay cash, and maybe I should, but then what is the point of having health insurance if you’re paying, in addition to the $400 per month in PPO health plan, $150 per visit to the doctor? I’d rather go inpatient at $1,000 a night and not have to deal with any of this stuff. It’s too much for me. A friend is going to call my insurance for me tomorrow, and pretend to be me, and try to get me in to see a doctor. I hope it works.

These are the kinds of things that mental patients such as myself have to deal with. These are the thoughts which transgress my mind and these are the frustrations which surmount my well-being.


There’s no denying it. I have fear in my gut. It is raw and edgy and has me not thinking straight. It’s actually a generalized anxiety. There’s no reason for it other than that I don’t like my life and I keep thinking, I could end it now. Just because I’m a pretty woman doesn’t mean that I can’t just up and kill myself. If I tried, though, I’d end up in the hospital. With major bills to pay off and a long hospital stay. Hopefully. Me and one of my friends that I met in the hospital, we joke about it. Being in the hospital, even though they tell you what to do most of the time, is great. You get three meals a day. Your medications are dispensed to you on time. You don’t have to take care of yourself because most of it is done for you. That’s what I need. A nice long stay in a loving home where I’m looked after and nothing is expected of me other than to eat and to shower. I could do with that for six months and then some. I desperately want to be taken care of. What’s so wrong with that?

Over the past weeks, I’ve been able to deal with work less and less. My productivity is waning. I take longer breaks and often find myself staring at the computer thinking about something else other than work. I eat the same thing for lunch every day and at $10 a day the food is a major expense. Most people at work bring their own lunch. Today after my first hour at work I snuck out to my car to take a nap in the back seat because I didn’t get enough sleep last night. Tonight I can finally sleep again for 12 hours or more. I didn’t finish my daily tasks at work and it took me almost two weeks to get through a relatively short call list because I wasn’t focusing. I hate answering the phone in a cheerful voice. At some point someone is going to notice that I hate my job. It will show. I took an extra half hour at lunch.

I am dehydrated and poorly nourished. The salmon I eat at lunch fills in for the nutrition gaps I would otherwise have. I don’t exercise even though I recently committed to a year-long gym membership. Just in case…

I left work early. I basically didn’t work today even though I was there. Just because I passed my 90 days doesn’t mean they cannot fire me at their discretion. I’m just trying to find a way to live. Hanging on for dear life. “Do your job with passion, find a way” I was told recently by someone who is not in-the-know. He doesn’t know that a year ago I was undergoing ECT treatment because I desperately wanted to die. Now I don’t always want to die.

Theater friend. He knows my struggle. Why does he then berate me every once in awhile? Make fun of my mental illness? Joke at my expense? I don’t understand it. Maybe it’s because he’s fond of me and I won’t return the affection. I’m a hard one to get through to. When a man talks to me, I have to assume it’s because they want something. It’s not just for the pure pleasure of having a conversation. They’re always trying to steer somewhere that I just don’t want to go to.

I thought I would be using fake names for everyone in my life for the blog’s sake, but it’s just too difficult to keep track of which name I used for whom, so I’ll just have to give nicknames and other references.

I’ve been reading a book. At work they have a library of discarded paperbacks that anyone is allowed to pick up and take home. I finally took advantage of it since I’m too scared, somehow, to go to the actual library. There would be more variety of books elsewhere, but I’m going with what I can handle. I can handle taking a book off of a shelf while I’m at work, and slipping it into my purse. I think it’s better than sleeping. I was thinking of going home and sleeping tonight, right after work, or pretending to sleep and lying in my bed with eyes closed waiting for bedtime to come. It’s not productive, but it’s my way of coping. I hide in my bed. Even if this home isn’t mine, the bed is, and I feel it’s the safest place I have. In bed, I don’t have to talk to anyone. I barely have to be alive. I need to be back there now.

Taking care of myself

Dinner was quick. Decadently creamy brie cheese spilling over crackers. No vegetables. No microwaving. Simple. Plain. Yes, I could have gone to the gym. Yes, I could eat healthier foods. But why? Why not just do what I want to do while I can in life? I have no one else that I’m responsible for other than myself. And even that, I do a mediocre job at. Taking care of myself is something that I’m still learning about. It’s something I had to learn anew three years ago. Because being in that relationship that I got out of was putting myself in harm’s way every day. It was not taking care of myself. I wasn’t able to. My therapist took care of me as best as he could during those years. And then I had to learn how to rebuild my life. I am strong. That’s what I have to tell myself.

I have more than 40 years left. What am I going to do with those years? Can I do something meaningful? My focus for the past eleven months has been staying out of the hospital. I don’t think I’ll truly believe I can stay out until five years has passed. I spent so much time in the hospital last year. I have a job now. It’s the first job I’ve had in about five years. That’s huge. Although, I tend to minimize the accomplishment and don’t see it as much of a feat. I see the things that I’m not accomplishing, which is that my cash flow is tight and I don’t have much money, that I am not doing a job which I enjoy, that I don’t like living in general, and that I don’t have many people around me. It takes time to improve on all of these aspects and I have all the time in the world, but I see my time as limited. I live from day to day and week to week, and somehow time continues to pass by, although I wish it wouldn’t. I am glad that I am no longer in my 20’s, but I am not yet comfortable with being in my 30’s.

I don’t have debt. I wiped that out with my bankruptcy. But I also don’t have any money saved for retirement. I haven’t bought a house yet. I don’t have a master’s degree. I feel like I don’t have family. And I’m lonely. I’m so lonely that I give my number out to almost any man who asks for it, and then regret giving my number out. Just tonight I had to tell a guy that I’m not interested in seeing him. I met him once. Not attractive at all. He kept calling me, persistently, and I continued to ignore the calls. Finally, I picked up tonight and told him I’m not interested. That was bold, he said. I know. I say it like it is. Take it personally or not, but stop calling me!

People my age have been married for five years and are starting to have kids. That’s how it was supposed to be. Thank God I didn’t become pregnant when we tried. That would have made life much harder. Sometimes I wish I could do my life over again. Be three years old and have a dad who doesn’t die, and grow up with both parents who are loving, caring, understanding, communicative, emotionally respectful, good at setting boundaries, supportive, physically affectionate. I want all of those things. I can’t have them. My mom did the best she could given the circumstances and she really did a fantastic job. She made a great income, provided for us, took us on vacations, managed to get us to see family even though we were in different countries, and that can get to be expensive, traveling. But I wanted to stay in one place and never go anywhere and have the same friends always.

The main thing is: I’m okay. That has been my theme. I’m okay. No one is hurting me right now. Nothing bad is happening to me. Everything is under control. My emotions are for the most part regulated. Things seem to be stable. I have this recurring thought, that I wish I didn’t have to work. I don’t like working. But that’s not true. I don’t like the job that I am doing, but if I found something I liked, I would enjoy going to work. If I didn’t work, I would never get out of bed, I would feel more depressed, I wouldn’t eat, and I would feel suicidal. Guaranteed within a week of not working all of those things would come up.

A friend called me. He wants to see me and wants to give me a big hug. Why do I not remember him as being a friend? I mean, we knew each other for two years, knew of each other, but we were not really friends. More like, acquaintances. And now I’m wary and I’m not sure what I’m getting myself into by agreeing to see him. He has a small child and he invited me to go to the park with them. I love children. But I don’t want to get “involved”. What am I doing? I’m desperate for reasons not to stay in bed on the weekends, and so, I’ll explore this relationship and see what it’s about. I have to set clear boundaries. I think setting boundaries is important and it’s something that people with depression might have a hard time with.

And then there’s my theater friend who is 15 years older than me and wanted to date me. This is also recent. Can’t I just have friends and not date people? Boundaries! Things got awkward, boundaries got blurred. I have to reinforce those boundaries.

My roommate is home now and I have to go hide in my room so that I can have some sense of privacy and not have to deal with being out in the open. I wish I had my own place and didn’t have to share my space with others. I would feel so much more comfortable. Good night.


My Life. That’s the title for most of my e-mails to my therapist. That or simply “me”. The title is supposed to be the subject matter of the e-mail and I’m not asking him how he is or telling him fun facts. I also don’t get replies. I just write about myself. Luckily for you, I decided to take that monumentous effort of writing and transcribe it here on a blog so that instead of having one person read this, two people can benefit from listening to my story.

I have so much to say. Luckily I have all night to say it. The night is young. I had a few miniscule samosas for dinner. Burned my finger while taking them out of the oven. They were frozen, from Vons. Got to love food that’s pre-made. I’m finishing the wine bottle I started last week. It’s just me, here, alone with the wine. I have nothing to lose, so why not? My life just isn’t that interesting. Having a glass of wine spices up the week.

My grandparents sent me a check for Diwali. It’s an Indian holiday that we celebrate with lighting special oil kheer lamp candles. I don’t celebrate on my own, but I’ve been to their house before, for the celebration. My Nani (maternal grandmother) always makes really good Indian food. I have fond memories. It’s so hard to hold on to those good memories, sometimes.

I’ve been making it through the last couple nights by focusing on babies. I finally logged back onto Facebook after having not been on there for over a year, and I found out that one friend from high school just had a baby and another one is pregnant. I love new life. I think it is so precious. It merits the mental energy I put toward it. I also used to be a volunteer baby cuddler. It was the best volunteer job ever. In the NICU. All I would do is sit there for three hours a week and cuddle babies. I wish I could find out how to do that again. I did it for almost two years, and it got me through the trauma and troubles I was going through at the time.

I started this blog two hours ago. Since then, I’ve texted and had a phone conversation, and finished my glass of wine. I suppose I’m not in the mood for writing any longer, which doesn’t make it fair to you if you’re going to take the time to listen to me. So I’m going to sign out for the night, wish you a farewell, and until next time, when I find my words and have more eloquent things to say.

My depression on a scale of 1 – 10 today? I’m about a five. Right, smack in the middle. It’s important to acknowledge where we are on the scale. I think of my scale as 10 being the most depressed, not the DBSA scale for bi-polar which is 10 for the most manic and 1 for suicidally depressed. I’m just right in the middle of being okay. A three would be more ideal, less depressed by all means. I am going to go to bed forcing myself to think of babies and their cute little feet.

Another night

Half the month is already up. But I didn’t do anything with it. It’s 6:30 PM right now. I slept through the weekend. I just microwaved a frozen dinner, which was rice and paneer in a masala, which means sauce. My empty, dirty wine glass from Friday night is sitting here next to the couch, as well as pretzels which are turning stale. I didn’t eat or get out of bed all weekend. Again. I didn’t know that soy milk could mould. I usually finish it way ahead of expiration date. But I took one drink and it tasted mouldy, so I had to throw it out. I have to shower. I don’t want to. When you’re depressed, showering is one of the hardest things.

My roommate is in the other room, on her phone, laughing. I hate having roommates. I pretty much hate my life. I hate my job. I hate being alone. I hate having to sleep on weekends because I don’t know what else to do with myself. Part of me hates that I’m alive. Life would be so much easier if I were dead. Then I wouldn’t have to live.

I’m not seeing my therapist this week. Why did I do that? I wanted to prove to him that I’m doing better. And prove it to myself, I think, mostly. I love seeing him every week. There are also moments when I hate him for asking such difficult questions. I miss him. Even if it’s only for that one hour a week, and residual lasting hours of the effects of that conversation, he always manages to make me feel better.

Christmas is almost here. It’s only a three-day weekend for me so I’m thinking of staying in town and doing nothing rather than traveling to see my family. This is how my mom invited me: “If you’re on your meds and stable, I guess you can come”. That did not make me feel loved. She later apologized, which meant a lot to me. I told her she had hurt my feelings and she later confessed, she probably just didn’t know how to handle “it”. It, being my mental illness.

I wish I could die. That’s how I feel right now. I think that’s how a lot of depressed people feel. They want some easy way out, a peaceful, painless death. Unfortunately, most paths to that end are traumatic and painful. There is no pleasant way to go. I’ve stopped cutting myself. It has been almost a year since I last picked up a knife directed at myself. Also, almost a year since that last traumatic hospitalization. I shouldn’t have called the suicide hotline. I could have made it through. But where would I be now? Likely not in this city, not in this roommate situation.

If I want to live on my own I have to maintain employment, and then hope for a better job down the line. I have to go to work tomorrow even though I don’t want to. I have to do these work projects which my employer assigned to me which I don’t want to do, which involves calling clients and getting them into the office for appointments. I hate my job and everyone around me knows it. I’m sure it even shows at work but they haven’t fired me yet.

I’m not paranoid. I just know that I’m uncomfortable in my own skin. I’d rather be in bed right now, watching the time pass by slowly, yet quickly. I don’t know how this coming week is going to be. I don’t have the ability or mindset to think positively. That would be the worst kind of advice to give me. I wish I could think positively, but everything is blaring down at me in a negative cloud of bad thoughts. All I can think of are bad things. I recently read Immaculee’s “Left to Tell” about her experience in the Rwandan holocaust in 1994 and ever since then I’ve had disgusting images of death on my mind. It really messed with me, that book. Someone gave it to me, so I felt obligated to read it, and I didn’t make it to the end. I feel like I’m going crazy just thinking of those things.

I’m always and constantly dehydrated. I never drink enough. I look at my co-workers with their big bottles of water, thinking, I wish I were like that. All I drink is caffeine throughout the day. My mom asked me yesterday if I eat vegetables, and the true answer is “no”. But I told her sometimes at lunch during the week when I go out. I eat at Rubio’s five days a week. Getting the same thing every day is tiring but also comforting.

I have to crawl back into bed now. It misses me. I need my stuffed animal to keep me company. I don’t know how I’m going to survive the week, but somehow I always do. It’s up to me to make changes in my life, but all I have energy for is sleeping in my bed. I don’t have energy to look for another apartment so I can move. I would be sleeping all day there as well, but I would at least have the place to myself.

Friday Night, keeping myself company.

It’s the end of the week again. Lately my end-of-weeks have looked like this: get home from work at 6:00 PM. Peel off my stiff work garb. Sport pajamas. Curl up in bed. Stay awake in bed in the dark for three hours. Eat nothing. Take my pills. Make sure my alarm clock is off and go to sleep. That’s just Friday night. Getting to the good part, Saturday: stay in bed. Get up once, after the sun has come up and gone down again. Pee. Eat half a bag of tortilla chips. Try to get back to bed before my roommate notices I was in bed. Sunday is the same as Saturday, except I manage to drag myself into the shower as the day fades out. I don’t own a hair dryer so I never shower in the mornings because I cannot bring myself to go to work with wet hair. Why I don’t just buy another hair dryer I’m not sure. Stubborn. Because I have one but I left it an eight hour drive away so I already have one and I don’t want to buy another one.

So I came home today and instead of crawling right into bed, I changed out of my work clothes and poured myself half a glass of wine, got out those divine peanut butter-filled pretzel snacks from Trader Joe’s which is often my dinner, and started my slow computer so that I could write this entry. I’m actually supposed to go out to meet a friend at my volition, so I have an hour to sober up as I’ll be back on the road. It’s likely I could get a DUI. I am aware of this. Yet I’ll do it anyway because I am feeling reckless and I’m tired of feeling tired and I just want to be out, drunk. I’m sure I could pass a sobriety test right now.

Corporate garble. I had to deal with corporate stuff today at work. It’s not something I enjoy. I sit there and try to pretend I know what I’m doing but really, all of this stuff is way over my head and beyond me. I don’t feel versed or well-trained at all. I’m supposed to know what we’re doing. All of this terminology with which I’m vaguely familiar glances over my head. It’s a two-hour monthly strategy meeting in the boardroom over lunch. Mexican food was ordered. Because I’m vegetarian, a special side order of potato tacos was ordered. They are delicious and filling. I’m trying to focus on the food to keep my mind off of the subject matter at hand, an industry in which I am trained but hate. I would much rather be in the marketing department, or any other department, other than this. I don’t mind the customer service part of it, but it’s the lists of calls that irk me. I’m taking notes at the meeting because I have to send them out later to the team. I’m trying to do my job.

That skipped into present tense but it seemed like a more pertinent way to slip myself into the moment as I was retelling it. I’m a girl with major depressive disorder and borderline personality disorder, with not many friends and an open bottle of alcohol waiting for me at home. Can you cut me a break sometime? Can I just go home and never have to wake up again? Why is it that I keep managing to make it to work? Every day I want to call in sick, but I’ve only done it once and that was when I had a fever. I was legitimately ill.

Oh, and pardonez-moi, I’m not a girl. Scratch that. I’m a woman. I want particularly my male counterparts to recognize that and not mess up on the terminology. Refer to me as a woman, for crying out loud. Show some respect. But on the inside I don’t feel like a woman. I feel like a girl. I feel like a girl who is 16 and unsure of the world and narrow-minded, only focused on herself. There was a massacre in Paris today. It was a terrorist attack. I’m so far away, but that could have easily been my neighbourhood. Have some perspective. Step up. Be the better woman. Be better than I was yesterday. Think of your family. I do think of them! Think of them some more. Try to develop relationships with them. Or don’t. It’s all up to you. I don’t want it to be up to me!

That’s a lot of self-talk. Will I be able to hold my own in a conversation if I make it out tonight? Will the two ladies I’m seeing embrace my presence or reject me? What will happen? Will I feel calm enough to handle myself? Will my drink get drugged and will I be shipped off to some far-off dark corner to get raped? These are the sorts of thoughts that circle around in my head. They are very real.

Who knows what sort of weekend I’ll have. My goal is to get out of bed at least once tomorrow. I wish I could be vertical and upright all day long, and manage to entertain myself. Take myself out to coffee on my own, just to get out. Go hang out at Barnes and Noble along with all the other creepy nerds and try to look inconspicuous as I sift through the photograph pages of expensive books I’ll never buy, trying to fit in, trying to fill yet another hour of a day which I would have otherwise spent in bed. Yet I don’t go to the library. I don’t go to the store. I don’t go out hiking on the trails by my home. I don’t do anything. Anything. My life is a big world of what-if’s and should-have, could-have’s. The people I am seeing tonight, I only know one of them, and we haven’t even known each other more than a few months. She says she cares, and I believe her, but is there girl-chemistry? Do we nourish each others’ souls? At this point I’m desperate to spend time with anyone. But not just anyone. There’s a guy that I recently told to take a hike because he liked me. He’s my close friend, but he has feelings for me and to me, right now, in this state where I am, that is unacceptable. Bye-bye, close friend of a year or more. Buh-bye wasted effort.

Don’t drag myself down. Everything’s going to be okay. I wish I were seeing my therapist next week but I decided to take the week off of therapy. Therapy is difficult! It’s really hard. It’s not for everybody and it’s not for just anyone. It takes commitment, even during the session, to see it through to the end. There are always difficult questions being asked, ones which make you uncomfortable. That discomfort is in fact, the strengthening of an emotional muscle you didn’t know was there and haven’t used much.

Sober? I don’t know. Will they be there when I get there? I don’t know? Will I be able to find the place? Sure! Will I get hit on by gay women? Yes, it’s that neighbourhood. Will my friend shield me from being hit on? Hopefully. I’ll have fun. No I won’t, but it’ll be a good diversion. I want to not be in bed right now, and that means, going out, because if I sit here much longer I’m going to tell myself all kinds of stories in my head about how I’m not good enough to study, or to write poetry, or to read a book, and end up in bed anyway.