Depressed and suicidal ideation. Don’t think I’ll ever be able to write, think I see the reality over Sal – that I will never be with her, as I would never be with Rach. (retrospective20.7.00 All or nothing thinking) That I have had too much. That suicide, if I could express the reasons for it, would be the best decision. That I will never be loved. Nothing is catharsis. (Retrospective20.7.00 The future from that point has not been so bleak.)
I was looking at straight edge sites today, but I don’t think I could even pull that off. I’m down. I had been promised a job at the Harvester, I went to train on Tuesday and I guess I must have done a bad job. I had tried to be upbeat on walking away, I guess positive thoughts and all that, but they didn’t ring me as they said they would. I felt humiliated and perhaps angry, and so much the archetypal loser standing with Richard and Tim and Nick and co. in the Harvester yesterday, others serving me in the job I didn’t fucking get. I rang them, feeling angry and foolish sitting at the desk with an open telephone directory and a phone perched in front of me as I tried to get the words together, tried to grasp the right tone and vocabulary and preempt the response, would it be sheepish (as it was) or had they simply forgotten. I threw the phone at the door. I can’t believe I can make a mess of even that. Have to waste more time looking. (retrospective: who gives a shit? I am better than them, objectively. I am better than a lot of people that I at times envy and look up to for the virtues that come to most so easily. I work at them and the successes I have mean so much more, especially against the frequent battles I win, and the tiomes they let themselves down. I make excuses for others and yet whatever is good about me I put down to my illness, hatever women sometimes see as good in me; anything.)