I need to get over a crippling depression that has only gotten worse, lately. But I have no ideas, really, how to get over it. Butch seems to think a vacation would help, but I disagree. After the vacation, I still return here, to my husk of a life. Grendel's my suicide prevention cat; as long as he lives, so do I. No worries.
Readers, I'm sorry to be such a repetitive downer lately, but I lost are than my sense of balance in the recovery process; I lost my autonomy.
And, like my sense of balance, I dunno if, or how, I'll ever get it back.
Arguing for my independence with my trust lords has gotten really old, really fast. See, I’m like a poor man’s Brittany Spears: all my money is in a special needs trust, dispensed as need be by my Trustees: Gil Roth and Peter Johnson. Gil, I’ve been friends with since St. John’s. Peter does this for a living, & cuts me a world of always legal and ethical slack. More tomorrow. Nighty-night.
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