I'm at a point where I need to write, but the problem is, I'm not going to say anything I haven't already wrote/complained/whined about. And if you're only going to be redundant, why write at all?

Well, for me, this is my therapy. This is me being able to say everything normally compacted into a little ball somewhere around my stomach.

I guess this is Suicide Prevention Month, I heard it somewhere (Parade maybe). I don't know how you stop someone who wants to, both of my "gestures", I stopped myself. Because as much as I didn't want to live, I didn't want to die, either. I know when you're in the black pit, there is no up. Right now, I'm in a gray pit, I can see up - I just can't get there.

I'm scared for the Hubby. All he sees is a future of pain and immobility, and a past of failure. One of these days, he'll end his pain. Am I being selfish for not wanting him to do that?!

You know the rest, still unemployed, have no money, haven't seen promised royalities from the Little Well That Could out in Roger Mills County. All I want to do is sit and eat, and read. I've been reading alot lately. I'm a bum.