It’s February. I am itching to do something wonderful. I am desiring that change of greatness. Whatever it may be, I am ready for it. Problem is I need to define what it is that I am making happen. I created a goal today. I am not going to tell anyone about it. I don’t have to. It is going to be something you can’t find on facebook. I hate facebook. We broke up a few days ago. There is a 14 day period where you can change your mind if you want to. I still have no desire to return to the data mining whore that it is. No. I would rather not participate in that virtual space. I find I have more time on hands rather I spent a lot of time on facebook. I am making a lot of positive changes in my life right now. I had a mental break this past weekend. It included breaking up with facebook.

I also decided to go to my regular doctor and return to the Adderal treatment. To which this happened to day. Now that I have the foundation, I am ready to get started with life. I am stirring some passion from within that I didn’t feel before to propel my success. I feel excited. Problem is I have no idea what I am doing. My plan, and the plan has always been to write a book. Like a real book. Like make a difference in your face change the world book. That is the goal. I am going to make this happen. I have the time. I have the talent. I just need the motivation. The passion. The desire. Perhaps the legal speed will help. It never let me down the ten years it made me accomplish like everything in my life. I was pulling books off my shelves today. I don’t have as many books as once I did. The ones I saved are special ones. Particularly I went to the shelf where I keep the books that changed me in 2003. I pulled out one about the subconscious mind. In there it had a passage about alcoholism. Alcoholism being a result of the unconscious desire to escape. Destructive thinking. As a man thinketh. Then supper was ready and I watched my mother open a fresh can of Coors. That page in that book burned into my thoughts. It saddens me. How I came to be here in my parents basement again i do not know. Regardless, I am here and it’s a lot different than it was last time. I have free reign of the basement. I even got to put up my own shower curtain. Desmond loves it. I actually think it’s bad ass ass well. I just wished my mom had better thoughts. She has been reading Stephen King again and is pretty excited about her progress. She is on her second book almost done. I’ve been thinking of my mother a lot in regards to how I became to be me. Parents have a huge influence over their child’s life. She no doubt was an alcoholic back then as well.

I wonder how I could market my journals…what spin can I give it?

Love does not appeal to me at all. Like romantic love. Men, women or both. I have to remember this for when it comes up. I knew this at twenty I should know better at thirty-five. I am here for something. Whatever that something is I haven’t yet defined it to be it. I want to be a writer. That’s what I am going to work at. I am going to do whatever it takes to share my knowledge with others.

Fiction is not an option.
Me. My story. Who am I? Why am I of anyone’s concern? What makes me so special?
I need a purpose. I need to inspire. I need an audience.

What can I do with my babbles on paper?

The second I begin to doubt myself is the second I go back to bed and not participate in this life. Such as an alcoholic does with alcohol.

I broke up with facebook. It’s been 5 days. I think about it sometimes but only because it gave me a fast way to waste time. Maybe I should be a blogger. My current reality is not really all that exciting. I am preparing for a wonderful journey though. The destination is self fulfillment. I have been working on it my entire life. I never felt I belonged. I never felt I mattered. Maybe it was my feelings that created that reality or maybe it was true and I really didn’t belong. In hindsight when you grow up in a small town there are only so many people you can chose to be friends with. There is no real freedom of expression in a small community. Not with a homebody mother. Troubles happened often in school. I was a horrible student most often than not. I feel bad for my teachers and my peers. I sucked I know I did. I could have done so much better. Why didn’t I? I was outcasted? I didn’t grow up right. Lost my virginity to rape. I don’t think about it much. When I do its surreal. Did that happen to me. I don’t care too much about it. It happened. If I really wanted to be honest I could say I was raped more than once by others. The first once held me by my shorts to get me naked. There was the jerk who pulled me into a trailer room while i watched my newborn cry a few feet away from me. Later I aborted his child. his genes doesn’t deserve to live I am sure, sorry God. The guy who came up to my apartment and attacked me has been forgotten for awhile. That’s three. Crazy. Those were almost 15 years ago. No wonder why I was a screwed up kid. The first guy I loved was my daughters father. He never should have been with me. i was 14. he was 20. Broke my heart when he left me for another girl then impregnated her. It took six years to figure out I was really a victim in the situation. Maybe I should write about my youth. I could include the three attacks. It’s kinda intense. But do I really want to relive it. I don’t even know if it is written about. Top secret in my life.

I miss writing to him. Maybe it was excessive. This is why I must reprogram myself. The drugs will help.


Why would someone want to buy my book?
What is my book about?
mental health

My journey through life has been hard. Harder than it really ever needed to be. Depression has that effect. My doctor asked me how my mood has been to which I replied, “Well, I feel happy but I am depressed. I am not sad I just am like eh.” It is hard to describe depression. It is easy to live it. The inability to get yourself out of bed to make it to work.

I am writing a book. This is not it. This is brainstorming.


Earlier today I began a blog. I don’t know what I am hoping to find but it occurred to me that its the best I got least writing to myself. I had a pen pal for a month or so but he didn’t feel as though I should use him as a human diary. In all fairness probably not but in the same token I assumed he would get it. Like play along. In my head it was the perfect distraction to life. Perhaps it was only meant to be brief. It is where I lost my mind. I didn’t know if I was going to live or die. To be honest I am surprised I made it this far. Now I frantically search for a goal, for a purpose and come up empty handed thinking well what is the point of all this. It’s frustrating. I don’t want to waste life away doing nothing. That is how I feel now. It is progress though. Instead of not wanting to do anything I find I want to do more. More than likely I will die by my own hand. Hopefully I have a few more years before that happens.

Writing letters to him opened up my natural talent to write, or so I thought. I didn’t write of love-maybe that was the problem. i don’t believe in love. It ain’t ever gonna catch me again. Nope. Next on my list to experience is wealth. I believe I have experienced ever other damn thing life one could. I am sick of reading things that I feel I already know. I want to create. To inspire. To heal.

I am mid-life. If I lived til I was 70 this would be already half of my life. In half my life I have a grandson.


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