Another Letter of Madness Unsent

I haven’t written you in months. I suppose it is because I felt rejected in your reply which told me if I was writing a person as a human diary I could utilize some real therapy. At that point, I was like, yeah I suppose he is on to something there. In my head all my letters were brilliant. I know they were of madness but at the same time they kept me alive. It’s February now. First I wrote was November 16th I believe. Last I wrote I am not sure. I do know that I miss writing you. I miss sending out letters to be read. I suppose now I am stuck inside this blog just tapping away at keys writing to myself. There is no longer an audience to write too. We can argue that this blog will have readers and yet we both know it is not the same as the realness we had, rather I had with you.
I have missed out on so much without writing you daily that I am not even sure I can ever catch up. Not that it matters. Good news is I am still alive. I am fighting this depression and so far am making it out alive. Who knows what tomorrow will bring. I went to see my doctor yesterday. With no insurance it cost $285.00 to get in the door. I told her it was cheaper than cremation to which she laughed. It cost an additional $100 to get the medication I wanted. All in all though, the money was worth it if it helps me get over this depression.
I have been trying to figure out some kind of goal to keep me inspired to live. I must be honest when I say it is hard. I fall back on the dream of being a writer and yet I find I cannot be honest if I use my real identity. I don’t want to tell everyone how my mom is a drunk and embarrass her. It is one of the defining parts of my life. Instead, I create yet another identity on the web and bury myself within it. I wonder how long before I get sick of this and delete it like the rest. I wonder how long before I grow bored of this dream too.
I really have no clue who I am or what I am doing in life which terrifies me. What terrifies me is to think I am wasting my life. In reality I know it doesn’t matter because we all die and maybe if we are lucky someone cares about us after enough to keep our memory alive. What have I accomplished to be this great? Nothing. Just random scribbles of my misery and honestly who really cares?
I am doing my best to stay alive in this world but in the end there has to be meaning for me to care to be alive. Frankly, I feel okay today but I am still lacking meaning. I figured I would write a memoir but as I push myself I have to ask what makes me so special that someone would want to read it. I really thought I was on to something inking letters to a pen pal but I see now that it was just pure madness. At least it kept me alive and motivated to see the next day if even if it were just to send mail out.
I was pulling books of my bookshelf last night in an effort to find some goal in life to achieve. I found something that has stuck with me. It was a passage about the cause of an alcoholism. It said it was caused from negative and destructive thinking. I cannot argue this point. This is why I avoid my mother on my lunch breaks. Her energy is the worst. It drags me down. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother dearly but I cannot stand negative energy to which hers is outstanding. Now that I live with her again it makes me wonder where life is headed for me. I don’t want to be like her. I don’t want to drink life away. It’s a sad and dumb way to live. This is what has deterred me from being an alcoholic. Sure, I drink. I even binge on occasion and yet the notion to be like that every night is ridiculous. I might as well kill myself now. It is no way to live. It does bother me a great deal thus why I avoid her. Nothing is ever good enough. I have never got any support from her. I suppose it is because she just can’t muster it within her shitty thought world. It drives me nuts that everything is always a problem…
I broke up with Facebook 5 days ago. It is a data mining whore. The only thing that I find in the aftermath is a sense of boredom. Whereas before I could scroll my newsfeed and see what everyone was doing or complaining about. Now, I have to figure out how to use my time more wisely. I don’t miss it. I loathe it. I hate it. It is just a huge social experiment. It is certainly not the place for me to write my hopes and dreams. I suppose that is what this blog is for. I suppose that is what real life is for. Whatever real life is for.

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