The only reason I am writing at this very moment is to stop myself from going to sleep. That is all I do right now. I go to work, come home, nap until my son comes up, feed him, watch crime stories, get him ready for bed, go back to sleep and then get up the next day and do repeat the whole process. I have no zest for life. No real will to live. I get very tired of hearing people say, “It’ll get better.” That’s what I thought too and you know what. It was a big fat LIE.
Things are not getting better, things are not getting easier. Things are not even remotely starting to look back up. I quit my job and moved to Texas for a moron only to turn around and come home three weeks later. I had to move all my stuff back into my apartment, and get everything (lights, cable—can’t live without cable) turned back on and at the end of all that, I’m jobless. I’m bitter, angry, I feel rejected by everyone and everything and I feel like I have absolutely nothing going for myself. That is the hardest part about all of this.
Feeling worthless; like a nobody. I’ve always been a writer but I’ve recently started writing more because I want to feel better about myself and you have to start somewhere. How do you pull yourself together when everything and everyone keeps pulling you down?
Rejection after rejection from men (I’ve had maybe three since May and can’t figure out for the life of me what I’m doing wrong), can’t find a job so I’m on the verge of losing everything that I had worked so hard for, and on top of all that, I honestly don’t know what I have to offer. I feel bad for my son because I feel like he deserves a better mother. I’m hoping someone who can relate will read this and realize that:
1. They’re not alone . . . and . . .
2. This can’t be as good as it gets.
I’m tempted to put myself back on my happy pills (Zoloft!) but I don’t want to half to need them. I don’t want a false sense of joy. I want the real thing.
