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Where else can you get a really good look at a train wreck of emotional dysfunction
and not be right in the middle of the thing?


Wednesday, October 13, 2021

My Day Today

  1. Once again tried to help my mother with her shit. Once again have her move the goalposts on what she wants/needs. Once again have her mistake and misunderstand pretty much everything I tried to say to her. Ended the conversation with her crying inconsolably and ruining her day, once again.
  2. Tried to see a new psychiatrist after my previous one suddenly shutters her practice indefinitely. New place – recommended by my primary care provider – is unprofessional and sketchy AF to me in a lot of their practices before they've even treated me. They also drag my ass across town to miss an hour and a half of work to just have me piss in a cup and have some woman take a five minute history in pen in a spiral notebook. I won't actually get to see a "doctor" (nobody in the entire practice is an MD) for two weeks to actually talk to someone about my actual fucking medications. So no help and a waste of my time for the opportunity to waste more time missing work to have someone possibly actually provide me a useful service.
  3. In spite of exercising every day and working hard to moderate my eating, my weight just keeps going up. Got to add another four pounds to the tally this afternoon.
  4. Went to a Meetup walk at a local park after work instead of getting shitfaced, which was my strong inclination after #1, #2 and #3. Before the walk, someone posted in the group chat about going to dinner after, and I reply that I'd like to. After the walk, no one else seems interested in grabbing dinner, and the guy says to me, "Well, if it's just going to be the two of us, I'm gonna just go home."
After weeks and weeks and weeks of not being able to enjoy anything (vid. blog title), it's getting harder and harder not to just give in and go back to drinking: use alcohol and vaping to smooth into and actually enjoy playing a video game, have a few hours of actual pleasure. When everything – like even brushing your teeth – takes such a monumental effort of will and just keeping your life the bare minimum above water seems monumental, it's so hard not to wonder why I bother with anything at all. I'm just a bitter, angry, perpetually unhappy, broken, empty man hurtling through his 50s whose only positive impression of life is that it isn't permanent.

Sunday, February 7, 2021

Realizations

My depression has been particularly weighing on me the past few weeks and is especially bad today. Sometimes the rabbit hole of thinking spurred on by depression causes my sense of self and reality to unravel somewhat, which can lead to existential panic and increasingly disjointed thought patterns. My whole psyche is patched together by self-delusion, and sometimes the cracks start to show. One of the motivating factors for writing this is to focus and seek a semblance of sense.

"I know you don't want to be here forever, even I got things I want to do in my life."
"When?"
{Shaun and Pete, Shaun of the Dead}

After an ill-advised and uninspired encounter last night, I realized simply that none of my dreams are going to come true. I'm fifty-fucking-one years old. I'm never going to have any success with my writing. I'm never going to have a significant other. I'm never even going to have a group of friends, just my usual small cadre of loyalists that I speak to and see only rarely.

I see young people achieve great success as writers, even in poetry, the form of expression most nearest and dearest to my heart. I see writers and other artists living with terrible mental illness, including soul-crushing depression, manage to rise above it enough to have their voices heard. I barely have enough mental energy to hold down a job, pay my bills, live independently and maintain a minimum standard in my self-care and living space. I don't have any extra to complete writing projects; I just endlessly scribble down all my little ideas. For those few things I actually manage to finish, I don't have the wherewithal to scramble and hustle to actually have my voice heard. I feel as if I have talent and something to say and the ability to entertain. But I struggle with finding meaning in anything, and writing something that no one will read is the height of vanity.

I'm desperate for connection, but never seem to have much success in relationships. Family and the few friends I have appreciate the idea of me more than the experience beyond the occasional brief encounters. I want to connect over shared interests so badly that I pointlessly beg my sister to watch a movie series or wheedle my friend into playing a video game franchise (both of them refused). Lately, I've been posting endless comments on "r/" YouTube videos as if anyone reads then or cares or as if they mean anything. Connection can't be forced, so it's all just a waste of time. The physical dysfunction caused by my antidepressants and other factors certainly hasn't improved as I've gotten older, so what hope is there for a relationship with no solid sexual expression and fulfillment, even if I managed to attract and not repulse a potential date.

I live my life in fantasy, and fantasies are more meaningful to me than reality. That's why every once and a while I will spend literal hours lost in a fantasy. I desperately try to make my fantasy world come true, but either fail or end up disappointed with how they look in the cold, harsh light of reality. My fantasy of writing success (specifically for a young adult adventure series) told me I should delete or heavily edit the raw and deeply personal honesty of a previous entry, but why bother? With past as precedent, I know exactly how my life will actually go:
  1. I drop dead sooner rather than later. (Given my age, I can hardly call it untimely or too young.) I haven't taken great care of myself over the years, but I also come from a general history of longevity on both sides.
  2. I continue to linger like a sleepwalker through a dream or a zombie stumbling through a barely perceived landscape. I'm good at my job (which is in fact my only real source of stability, security and fulfillment), so I will keep it, achieving moderate, perfunctory, unspectacular success until I finally come of age to retire. I haven't saved all that much, but the lucky happenstance of inheritance may keep me from being completely destitute through the hard work and prudence of others. In a dwindling sphere of isolation, I'll spend my time watching TV & movies and playing video games while probably developing into a full-time alcoholic. My days will revolve around drinking, preparing to start drinking and recovering from drinking the day before. Companionship will continue to be short-lived, transactional encounters. I'll write a little bit here and there, perhaps nursing the delusion of "one day." Finally, I'll drop dead later rather than sooner, alone and so quickly forgotten. My siblings' descendants will look upon the writing I leave behind with novel interest before packing it up somewhere until eventually it gets thrown out and even my memory has been obliterated from the world.
Ultimately, like everyone else, I'm just killing time until I die, so none of it matters anyway.

Friday, September 18, 2020

Say It! Say it!

I’ve come to realize that “antici … pation” is one of my chief pleasures in life. I really enjoy anticipating things I think will be pleasurable, and a major driver of my depressive mood is when I think there’s nothing to look forward to. For example, I always experience a major letdown after returning from a trip I enjoyed or when people I like visiting from out of town return home. My thoughts turn back to the drudge of my normal life, and I feel as if there’s nothing on the horizon. In fact, I get the same intense letdown after any instance of pleasure has passed. I stay up most of the night watching a TV series or playing a video game because I’m having fun. I don’t want to stop eating sugary junk – eating it until I’m almost sick – because I don’t want the transient pleasure to stop. I get down when I’m about to finish a movie or TV series or book or video game I’ve been enjoying because I’m left wondering when and if I’ll enjoy something else. In fact, I have often stopped consuming media towards its end and moved on to something else without finishing it because I don’t want the anxiety of finding something new (though that is also driven by an aversion to finality and other fears). All of these patterns are a function of my pervasive anhedonia.

The anticipation of pleasure is itself an intense form of pleasure, often eclipsing the actual experience, and my addict’s brain finds any form of pleasure practically irresistible. I’ve wasted a lot of time and lost a lot of focus on the present and on what I was currently doing by focusing my mental energy on anticipating a future pleasure. Compounding the issue is that the actual pleasures I anticipate almost always disappoint because of my contrary, depressive nature, especially those pleasures that don’t involve base, physical, animalistic desires:  food, alcohol/drugs and sex, hence my particular weakness to those kinds of things. I’m trying to adjust my hamster wheel of pleasure-seeking behavior so I enjoy the moment more, keep myself oriented on the present more and deal with reality as it comes. It’s all right to enjoy anticipation but not to the extent that it totally consumes everything else.

Friday, September 11, 2020

And Another One Gone

A few weeks ago, I decided to part ways with my most recent therapist after only a couple of sessions. She was a decent enough woman from what I could see, but she wasn’t really able to offer me the kind of help I think I need. In her defense, I’m not really sure what I need and was resistant to her suggestions, but I also was put off when she suggested things that were counter to what I was telling her about my situation. When I tell you that I often have to use every ounce of my will to do the bare minimum in my life, sometimes even to just brush my teeth let alone the effort of showing up and producing at work every day, don’t tell me about how I need to take a cooking class and start making home-cooked meals, for example. When I tell you that I have spent decades forcing myself into new behaviors in the hopes my mood would change (but never did), don’t tell me that all I need to do is force myself to do things – some of which I have already tried repeatedly – and somehow my mood will magically fall in line. When I tell you that I have days, weeks, months where I cannot find pleasure in absolutely anything in spite of having the means and time at my disposal, don’t tell me that all I need to do to derail a spiraling mood is find something to enjoy.

And speaking of therapy, I really wonder about the current training on self-disclosure by therapists. The past three therapists I’ve seen have, by my way of thinking, overshared personal information. My understanding is that the conventional wisdom used to be that therapists would rarely, if ever, self-disclose. The benefits of therapy arise from the fact that it is a rigid relationship dynamic where one can talk things out in a safe space where the things you say don’t affect that relationship. You can tell your friend or partner about all of your thoughts and feelings but it will inevitably alter your dynamic because they are actively in your life. U.S. therapists can’t even see patients socially (much less date) until five years after therapy has ended because too much closeness can be damaging to the patient. My therapists’ sharing of personal information altered the therapeutic relationship, putting me in a situation where I was worried about the therapist personally and/or felt as if I was being told “everybody feels that way,” which is another cardinal prohibition when talking to those with mental illness. Therapy is, by definition, an egocentric and one-sided exercise. Complicating the dynamic risks reducing its effectiveness.

Thursday, September 10, 2020

Confessions of a Control Freak

Everybody has met control freaks in their life, and they can be a difficult personality type to deal with. My theory of the case is that their behavior is driven by anxiety rather than a need to dominate others or maniacal demands that everything be done their way. Generalized anxiety is an unspecified worry about what might happen and the general unpredictable nature of life. Exerting as much control over your environment – as well as the behavior of others – creates a feeling of security because life seems more predictable with less surprises.

I’m generally not a control freak when it comes to other people’s behavior because it’s impossible to direct others in addition to just being ethically wrong. Sometimes when I want a certain thing or outcome that involves other people, I fret so terribly wondering how to chart the best course to achieve my goal. It’s another reason for my self-isolation. By limiting my life in this way, I can exercise more control on outcomes by not having to deal with the X factor of other people’s behavior. Also, everyone has flaws, and I have more than I can count. But when I meet someone who I might want to spend time with as a friend, I worry that a particular “flaw” might create an uncomfortable situation, especially if the character trait has to do with their interactions with others. But then I miss out on so much by ordering my life this way. The healthier attitude would be to just deal with others on an equal footing, accept that I can’t predict or influence their behavior and be adaptable so that I can enjoy social interaction on its own terms.

I’m rarely a control freak in my work life because I separate that from my personal goals and am pretty good at being adaptable in the workplace (at least since turning 40), but I do try desperately to control every aspect of my personal life. I try to make everything as predictable and calm as possible in a vain effort to leave nothing to chance. I agonize over every little thing and obsessively pursue goals. (The flaw in that is that my goals, the things I value as important and my level of motivation fluctuate so wildly depending on my mood that I rarely actually complete longer-term goals.) I work myself up into an anxious frenzy trying to make everything in my life just so and exhaust myself into unfulfilled unhappiness.

I have actually managed to avoid freaking out too much about what happened to me at the massage appointment the other day, which is frankly a little surprising as I was extremely upset after it happened. I’m now in my 50’s, and I’m trying to make real changes in my life so I might enjoy my existence a little more. I keep reminding myself that none of us can predict how things are going to turn out for us. There’s really nothing better than hoping for the best and being resilient when things go bad. In the past I’ve used my excessive anxiety as a shield in the mistaken belief that I was exerting control:  I was doing something by worrying, and worry would somehow magically protect me from the thing I feared coming true. Conversely and perversely, I believed that if I didn’t worry, the gods of irony would cause the thing to happen as some sort of punishment, the belief locked in by my OCD and the fact that this was a common plot development in stories. I can only really control my attitudes and behavior, so that will have to do for now.

Monday, September 7, 2020

Growing up in the shadow of AIDS

I have been walking around the past several days in a haze of torqued up sexual fantasies, subsisting on lust and nicotine. I came of age at the peak of the AIDS crisis, and it really scarred my psyche and instilled a dreadful fear of sex, compounded by my severe obsessive-compulsive disorder. Adding insult to injury was the blatant, unchallenged homophobia that was so pervasive at the time. If we were lucky, we were just a joke, but disparaging attitudes and contempt against LGBT people were considered normal as was real and threatened violence. AIDS was considered a just punishment against morally corrupt people, and it almost certainly doomed one to a horrifying, ignominious death. The government did not prioritize the health crisis, taking the attitude that it only targeted “those people.” 

I also had literally no one to talk about what I was experiencing as I became sexually mature. Most people are able to work through the inevitable teenage bullshit about sex and relationships with peers, family members and trusted adults so that they’re able to enter a more mature phase of understanding. I had these basic, primal, animalistic urges towards other men but never had the luxury of talking through them or getting any understanding and perspective as to what I was feeling. All of this – a lifetime of ingrained maladaptive thoughts and behaviors – prevented me from ever being able to truly enjoy the natural expression of my sexuality at any time in my 50 years.

I’ve spent more than a decade staying with my empty status quo and rarely even trying. I show up to work each day, pay all my bills, say pleasant things to everyone around me and spend my nights and weekends looking for distraction in TV and movies and sometimes video games as I stew in my quiet despair. I’m tired of living in constant fear of what might happen. I can’t honestly say that being timid and overly cautious has really benefitted me in any way over the course of my life, but it has caused me to isolate myself, avoid countless things that might have brought me joy and end up a backdrop spectator in my own existence.

Last week I asked my doctor to start me on Truvada, a pre-exposure prophylaxis (PreP). I’m planning to seek out more casual sexual encounters and try to actually enjoy myself. I intend to practice certain safer sex practices but not be so maniacal about others. I’ve been doing a lot of walking during lockdown to get myself in better shape. I’d like to get on some dating websites and focus on getting to know people and enjoying my sexuality while I still can and not desperately hunting for “the one” (though I’d be pleased as punch to find him). I’m not looking to go on Grindr because I’m not young, hung and full of cum, and I’m not going to seek casual encounters on Craigslist because I don’t want to get murdered. It would help things if my equipment actually worked better (thank you antidepressants!), but I can only address a few issues at a time. I want to train myself to unlearn decades of unhealthy, unproductive thought patterns. I don’t want to spend four weeks in a heightened state of anxiety after every sexual experience, waiting until I can take an HIV test. I don’t want to exhaust myself with the splitting I do when I think about HIV, panicking every time I hear HIV mentioned while in that waiting period and then constantly telling myself I’m glad that I’m “safe” when my status is confirmed to be negative. I want to rely on the best medical foundation and move forward while realizing that I can’t control everything.

I feel foolishly sex-obsessed like an adolescent with all this, but I also feel more drive and less like I spend all my time sitting around my place alone and feeling sorry for myself. My superstition nature – driven by my OCD – tells me that my attempt to take control will result in ironic tragedy because that’s how it works in books and movies, where tragedy strikes when all seems to go well. And so that’s how I think life works. Even writing this entry makes me believe I’m tempting fate, but I have to press on and try to undo a lifetime of damage with fear and trembling.

And then, of course, this happens…

I wrote the draft for the previous section’s screed on sexual empowerment before I was violated by a male masseur yesterday. Every blue moon I'll get an M4M massage because I’m an extremely lonely, socially isolated and extremely unhappy person that gets desperate for physical and sexual contact. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I’ve always been just a little bit skeevy when it comes to my sexual activity (though generally pretty vanilla with my tastes). I've gotten erotic massage, and in my youth, I occasionally engaged in public sex with strangers. Living in Los Angeles for ten years also provided no shortage of venues where one might indulge in pleasures of the flesh. Because of the fear of HIV and internalized homophobia that I mentioned above, I never really had a healthy integration of my sexuality as a fundamental part of me and learned to view as something “separate” with puritanical ideas that it is inherently dirty and shameful, thus only pursued covertly at the dark fringes. If I hadn't had such hang ups around sex, I might have been able to enjoy casual dating that sometimes involved sexual activity and maybe could have found a long-term partner, which is really what I've always wanted.

Ironically, my primary motivation for scheduling the appointment yesterday was for legitimate muscle work as I’ve been having problems in my shoulders and calves, though admittedly looking forward to a beefy guy performing the massage. Most of these M4M appointments involve a little mutual touching and a “happy ending.” This one got surprisingly sexual surprisingly fast and abruptly. It went from him lightly tickling my balls with one hand as he used the other forearm to apply deep tissue strokes to my major muscles to grinding his cock on my ass. I was a little surprised since he bills his massage as therapeutic and sensual, as opposed to erotic. I didn’t mind what he was doing until he decided to top me bareback. I told him to stop, and he immediately did. While it was brief and didn’t involve orgasm, I was really upset because he unilaterally decided to perform the single riskiest sexual act without checking to see if I was O.K. with it. Younger people have a markedly different attitude about HIV and safer sex, but this guy was my age and should have known better.

I was on day four of Truvada, which should provide 95-97% reduction in risk, but it doesn’t reach full effectiveness until a week. With my OCD, that differential makes all the difference to me. Now I’m freaking out and back to the agony of having to wait four weeks before I can take an effective HIV test. I feel as if the prophetic tone I ended the previous section has come true. I let my guard down, tried to enjoy life and found myself in yet another fearful situation alone. I made the same mistakes I always do: thinking that anything I ever do actually matters or that life could ever be anything like I wanted it to be. I tried to exorcise old demons from my psyche by being as measured and rational as I could be, but I never seem to have any real control or agency about anything that happens to me. I just constantly mess things up no matter how hard I try. Other people seem to be able to plan and work towards goals that move their lives generally in the direction they want. I always seem to be like flotsam randomly moving but going nowhere regardless of what I do or don't do. 

I made a mistake
I should have never tried
I took the cake
Finished every slice
...
Looking through my eyes
I move at a pace
That I cannot survive
I'm hauling away
I do it all the time
Let love age
I stare at the face
And watch it burn out and die
{Grizzly Bear, "Mourning Sound"}

Monday, August 24, 2020

Thought Journal

I had been seeing a counselor for several months, but she had to take an unanticipated medical leave. Blah Blah Blah "... for my physical health and safety ..." Blah Blah Blah (Take care and stay safe, T.!)

Anyway, I had my first Zoom with a new therapist last week, and she asked that I make a record of the symphony of negative thoughts that plays endlessly in my head. The following is a list of things that ran through my brain, representing a pretty typical week and often a typical day:
  • There is a near constant thrum of unhappiness casting a ubiquitous shadow over my mood that I have to fight against: there is nothing for me to enjoy, nothing to look forward to and no hope of achieving a fulfilling life. I just force myself to go through the motions to keep my life at its bare minimum status quo.
  • I feel imprisoned in my anhedonia, convinced that I will never find anything enjoyable ever again. I feel free-floating anxiety when something I’ve enjoyed is about to end because I’m sure there will never be anything else or at least I'm panicked to desperately find the next thing I might get some pleasure out of.
  • I’ll be doing all right and then the bottom drops out of my mood, especially when I end a task and try to transition to another, and I feel a vague panic that nothing is worth doing and I‘ll never enjoy anything again.
  • I’m frequently gripped by a powerful malaise where I find it impossible to do literally anything, even move. It takes all of my will to perform any action whatsoever and break out of this profound disinclination to activity.
  • I sometimes have an existential panic over the implications of consciousness and inevitably of death.
  • I have random crying fits over absolutely nothing and ridiculous things, such as during the happy ending of Zoolander 2, a silly comedy movie, and even Fred 3: Camp Fred, an even dumber movie I'm embarrassed to admit watching let alone crying over.
  • I have episodes of explosive rage over the smallest and most pedestrian setbacks and inconveniences.
  • I’m convinced that it’s too late for fulfillment. I sustained my hopes and dreams, the crux of my raison d’ ĂȘtre, in fantasies that propped me up and kept me going with false hope for for all those years I found my actual life unfulfilled, but now those hopes have flown as fulfillment seems impossible. I don't often indulge in fantasy anymore, but when I do, I can lose myself in my imagined reality for literally hours at a time.
  • I have a paralyzing fear of failure: What if I finally get it together to write, and no one wants to read or publish it? My entire life would truly, definitively be a waste.
  • I’ve tried so many times to make changes and told myself countless times, “This is it, a new beginning” that it feels foolish to ever tell myself that again. How can I ignore my own experience where I’ve failed to realize significant change?
  • I waste so much time, mental energy and will on just not doing things: drinking, spending money, overeating, pursuing ill-advised sexual activity. I wrestle with a constantly churning inner debate about making better choices, especially when I wonder why I bother when nothing seems to change regardless of the decisions I make. My experience belies a causal link between my behavior and how I feel or what goes on with me.
  • I have bouts where it's impossible to concentrate or perform higher mental functions. I'm often unable to face any complex or complicated task. I'm overwhelmed by what it would take to make real improvements in my life, especially organizing decades of notes, ideas and half-started writing projects.
  • I’m constantly disappointed that friends and families don’t fulfill my emotional needs or appreciate me in ways I crave, and I yet hate myself putting that burden on them, especially given my truly insatiable need that no one could ever fulfill. How have I fulfilled others' emotional needs?
  • I feel obsessive guilt over things I did or said or didn’t do or say, even with events that literally happened over 40 years ago. I can guilt myself into tears over those times I lost my patience with a couple of (now dead) cats and yelled at them, ignoring all of the times I was caring, extremely patient and providing a secure home. All that matters are the times I failed. Not all the times I didn’t or even went above and beyond. This is the same in my relationships with people as well.
  • No matter how hard I try to try, I’ll never be anything close to what I’ve always wanted to be since I was a child. And now it’s too late.

Friday, August 14, 2020

Accomplishments

Once again this week, my only significant personal achievement today was not getting drunk. Or doing bear whores or cocaine, for that matter. So zero out of three for the evening despite an inordinate amount of consideration.

Sunday, December 15, 2019

Still a Drunk

In July of last year, I derailed about two years of sobriety when I had a couple of beers on the way back from a trip to Los Angeles, but I never went anywhere with it. Unfortunately, I've had two periods of serious drinking this year. Once in the spring and once for several weeks at the end of summer. I managed to sober up with a poor man's detox by staying at my parents home while they were out of the country for a few weeks in August. Keep in mind that the drinking and the detoxes were done while still working full-time and showing up every day. I've managed to avoid drinking for the past four months, though it's always there ready for me to fall back into.

And I've certainly been tempted. I realize that I’m always saying that my mood has been particularly bad lately, but I do have periods where my mental illness troubles me less. However, the past few months have generally not been such a time, and I have often struggled desperately just to make it through each day, flirting with passive suicidal ideation with some regularity. My psychiatrist has tried to make a couple of adjustments to my meds this year with no improvement, so I'm back on the same things I've been taking forever. I felt she signaled she'd pretty much done all she can for me when she finally just told me she was going to pray for me. I have recently started seeing a counselor and do think that's going well.

The Story So Far (Life Can Get Better)

When I quit my job three and a half years ago, I was certain that I would never find another professional job anywhere in Memphis. But that didn't bear out, and my situation has improved a lot since then. I found a paralegal job with a large corporation, and the work I do there and the situation in general makes it the best job I've ever had. I still have my baggage to deal with there, as anywhere, but they actually seem very pleased with my performance, which is always good. I also bought a condo a couple of years ago, which is the first time I've ever owned my home. I had to borrow the down payment from my parents, but I've never missed a payment to them or for my mortgage. All in all (though more through serendipitous generosity than my own steam), my financial situation has finally gotten to the point where I'm not living hand to mouth.

50 Is Not So Nifty

I turn 50 years old tomorrow, and no other "milestone" birthday has ever troubled me like this one. Being how I am, I fantasized throughout this year of all the things I would have done by the time my birthday came along: get in shape, get my condo of two years set completely, write the first draft of the young adult fantasy adventure book I've been working off and on for 30+ years, etc.  Essentially have my life "perfect" and be someone unrecognizable and basically not me. Obviously none of that happened. I was going to do a solo "spa day," but I just couldn't be bothered. I'm too jaded to try and set up some meaningful event (such as the phoenix tattoo I got on my 30th birthday) arbitrarily on an arbitrary day in a nihilistic and chaotic universe. I'll go have dinner with my parents, same as I've done the past ten years. I feel guilty and immature for not appreciating having parents who are around and interested in celebrating the day with me while simultaneously simply unable to stop from wishing that my life were ordered differently.

For the past few years, my train of thought has occasionally stopped cold in horror at the idea that I'm approaching this age.  I vividly recall something that happened to me in college. I was sitting at a table outside of a classroom building on west campus when I had a vision of sorts of my future: I saw myself waking up to look in the mirror one day, seeing the last vestige of my youth gone and having never achieved anything in my life that really mattered to me with all hope of hope gone. A vision indeed, prescient as it turns out, for here I am. I spent decades waiting for my "real life" to begin, and now my life is mostly over. I feel I’m forever doomed to be nothing more than flotsam on the stormy sea of my psyche.  I’m tossed around by my depression, tossed around by my fears, tossed around by my anger and tossed around by my endless, unfulfilled, unfillable need.  Until one day I’ll finally just expire a wasted life of wasted potential.

Friday, July 8, 2016

The Epitome of My Efforts at Recovery