I’m depressed as all fucking hell. My idea for a Trump-inspired holiday party, “Moscow on the Schuykill” has dissolved like so much wet toilet paper. I just don’t know if I have the wherewithal to keep going. I’M VIRTUALLY friendless, can’t/don’t/won’t write anymore; and in a depression so severe that I truly truly don’t know if I can pull myself back from the abyss or not.
a blog that is also meant to serve as a recovery journal, for this gay, Quaker, writer dealing with t.b.i., from surviving a hate crime in Sligo, Ireland, on 1.31.99.