Entry #4

Dear Diary,

I have a confession.

Back in early 2013, shortly after I had moved to Fargo, I had such a terrible breakdown that I should have been put in a hospital. I was self-destructive and borderline suicidal. The only reason I didn’t get admitted was because of my brother. No, he didn’t rise up to save me or come to my aid. In fact, he didn’t even know how low I was.

I didn’t let myself get admitted because he was helpless back then. He didn’t drive. Didn’t wash dishes. Nothing. All he did was sit in front of his computer all day like he had done since I could remember. I had to take care of him before I could take care of myself.

Which is also why I went hungry.

I was out of work and on food stamps, and most of that income went to buying my brother pizza because it was the only thing he’d eat. And he’d load up, which meant I’d have very little for myself (no, he never shared his pizza). Of course, he was oblivious to all of this. In fact, he blames me for everything that went wrong while we lived in Fargo. Try as I might, I was either laid off or fired at every job I had taken while I lived there.

So why am I telling you all of this?

Well, part of it is because I’ve been really low these past few days. I’m not sure what brought it about, but it reminded me of this whole ordeal. And you know what? I envy my brother. Really, I do.

He’s one of those people that just seem to have everything go right. And others fawn over him and let him get away with stuff because he’s “special needs.”

Guess what.

So am I.

I’m autistic, I suffer from ADHD, anxiety, and PTSD, I have a learning disability when it comes to math, and—as if all that wasn’t enough—I’m schizotypal to boot. And, no, I’m not making any of this up for attention. I have copies of my test results right here in my filing cabinet that I can show you at a moment’s notice. The only thing I pretend is to be normal when, in fact, I’m somebody completely different. Nobody has ever seen the real me, and that is someone you never want to meet.

But I’m not broken enough to get the same help my brother got.

Entry #2

Dear Diary,

First, a couple writing updates.

I’ve been stuck on The Archfiend Artifact for a while now, but I finally made some headway. All I have to do is rewrite chapter 17 and rearrange a few others before continuing on. My estimate puts it at about 67,000 words once it’s complete. Right now, it’s sitting at 53,200, but I’m missing a good portion of the middle.

Something else I’m just beginning to work on: another series. This one will be written under my new pen name JT LeFae (Jezzarie Taylor LeFae). This is due to the erotic nature of the tales, and my want to keep them separate from the others I write. This new series will still be paranormal, but they’ll have detailed sex scenes in them. Why? Because, unfortunately, sex sells.

And I need practice for The Tainted Soul.

Now for something a lot more personal…

There are a couple of questions that haunt me like a plague. They are: Why don’t you get out of the house and do something?; How are you?; and What do you have to be anxious about?

Well, let me answer those right now.

How am I?

I can never truthfully answer that without bringing up personal stuff. I want to say, “I’m suffering from depression, anxiety, and constant stabbing pain in my hip, but thanks for reminding me.” Instead, I simply answer, “Still alive,” which is the truth, but makes me sound suicidal–been there, done that; don’t recommend it.

What am I anxious about?

There’s too many things to name, but if you really want to know… Is someone going to hit me with a car? (walking/driving); Is someone going to attack me? (it’s happened); What if someone runs over my dog?; Is someone going to mug me?; Why is that person staring at me?; Is that person following me?; What if the house catches fire while I’m gone? And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

Why don’t I get out and do something?

With no money and near-constant anxiety any time I go somewhere, getting out of the house is a nightmare. Not that there’s anything to do in North Dakota anyway. Join a club? – Too many people; Go to a bar? – Too many people and against my vows; Go to a movie? – No money; Go swimming? – Hate it and allergic to 99.99% of swimsuits; Go fishing? – Against my vows; Go camping? – Can’t drive the RV and no money; Travel? – Love to, but no money.

I’m comfortable at home, but easily bored (I’ve heard it’s a downside of a 189 IQ). So I feed my gaming addiction by playing Skyrim or World of Warcraft or the like. There are still a few anxious thoughts that hit me like a runaway bullet train; most notably: Is the furnace going to explode?; Is my dog going to escape the yard and get hit by a car?; Is someone going to break in?

I hate it. I hate feeling scared all the time, but I can’t seem to reprogram my brain to not think of these things. So I suffer in silence and pretend everything is hunky-dory.

PS, It is difficult to write with four dogs curled up on my lap.