It has been a very long time since I've written. In fact, I was surprised to find that my previous entries still remained.
Since before, I have been wildly successful at work, making $100,000 a year. I have been married (and divorced) to the man who used to be my best friend. I lost the six figure job and started working for myself. I lost my mom to cancer, and have slipped into a very scary depression. I got hooked on Xanax with the help of a psychiatrist with a free-flowing prescription pad. When I lost this connection, I went into Xanax withdrawal and lost my memory. It has been nothing but fun and games on my end, eh?
Reading over my old entries filled me with laughter and tears. I used to be a happy girl. The world was my proverbial oyster then, and I was lapping it up like an expensive seven-course meal. Now I have very little, and very little to be happy about.
I spent a couple of weeks in a mental hospital because they didn't think my memory loss was true amnesia (since I hadn't been in a car accident or the like). They thought I was repressing my memories. Perhaps I was...er...am.
Since the hospital stay, I have been living with my brother and sister-in-law in their tiny one bedroom apartment. I sleep on a mat in the floor. My home, which my mother left me in her will, was foreclosed on while I was in the hospital. It is the second home I have lost to foreclosure. The first was awarded to me in the divorce and was the first house I and my ex-husband bought during our brief trip down happy, holy matrimony. Apparently, while I was self-employed, I wasn't making my house payments, at either place. What did I think was going to happen?
So now I'm homeless and living off the kindness and love of my family. Except a few articles of clothing, some toiletries, and an iPod, I have nothing of my own, not even a car. I listen to the iPod every day. Sometimes I play cheerful music to help myself out of the dumps, but usually I listen to sad music that makes me miss my mom even more. I pray to her since I quit believing in God. I'm told God still believes in me, but I've yet to see any sign of it. Except for the small amount of family that still has anything to do with me, I am completely and utterly alone in my desert of desperation and depression, loneliness and heartache.
I have no clever words to offer to make this mountain of shit go down smoother. Things really are this bad. I am not, however, giving up. I do want to live again. Breathing still hurts, but I still have a hint of optimism about the future. Think of what a great story it will make if I climb my way out of the shit and back into the fold?
I am so tired of crying myself to sleep. Hell what am I talking about? I'm tired of crying, period. I do it often throughout the day, when James and Michelle aren't looking. I want to be hopeful again, and re-reading my older diary land entries does make me hopeful. I used to have a good time. I used to laugh. I used to make jokes. Every once in a while, too, I would write something clever and/or meaningful. I was creative, and that is something I haven't been in a very long time.
I'd give anything to have a life worth telling here once again, but I suppose I have to be grateful that the one thing I haven't lost is my ability to write. These entries may not always be good writing, but at least I can tell a story and have it come out making sense.
I used to end each entry with something witty or heartwarming. I suppose I'll have to settle for something else today, even though it is completely recycled. A pig's orgasm last 30 minutes. In the next life, I want to be a pig.
1:59 p.m. - 2014-02-23
Recent entries:
Urgent: Slowly Disintegrating and Virtually Disappearing Sense of Reality - 2021-07-28
Ladies Light it Up - 2020-04-25
Bored to Death - 2020-04-03
A Cold and Broken Hallelujah - 2020-03-31
A Cold and Broken Hallelujah - 2020-03-31
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