April 16, 2026

Dear Diary,

This is my first step toward doing more with my writing. If I'm being honest, I've never done anything beyond journaling in cheap notebooks when I was younger, and getting A's on any writing assignments that I completed during school (when I was actually present, and not ditching class to get high with my friends).

I've brainstormed all kinds of ideas, with the main goal being to simply write more. All throughout school, Language Arts was my favorite subject. I was never big on reading, unless the book was something I could relate to, or told a story that kept my attention long enough to really pull me in. The conclusion that I've arrived at is that I should start with keeping a journal. Back to basics, if you will. I have a feeling that I'll get bored with journaling relatively quickly, especially if it seems like all I'm doing is complaining or thinking of myself. If and when I reach that point, I hope I'll still have the motivation to start working on ideas for a short story, a memoir, or possibly get back into writing song lyrics. I never took too much pride in my song writing; there was always that one line that I knew could be better, or when it came to actually adding music to go along with my lyrics, I could never quite get it right.

I'm about 4 months away from turning 35 years old. It's a scary age, because I've always promised myself that by the time I was 35, I would be doing much better. Surely, by then, I wouldn't still be doing the same exact things that I started as a teenager. I wouldn't allow my own negative thoughts to rule my entire life. I wouldn't be running away from all of my problems still. Not anymore. Definitely not at 35.

Well, 35 is right around the corner, and in many ways, it feels that I've only gotten worse; my negative thoughts have grown louder, practically evolved into screams, and I've run away from my problems for so long that I seem to have lost the starting point that could possibly point me toward resolution. I've given up on myself, and I have no one else to blame.

I think the part that makes me feel the worst, and has caused a ton of confusion, is that I have so much to be grateful for. I start to consider that I've fallen into some type of psychosis when my thoughts start contradicting themselves. Those who "just want to help" might say, "Have an attitude of gratitude!" or "Take it one day at a time..." Believe me, I've reached levels of desperation that have caused me to try anything and everything suggested to me, and I feel confident in saying that I've tried and failed them all. Between one-on-one therapy, inpatient programs, outpatient, 12-step meetings, "other" meetings, confiding in friends, family, or a significant other- even giving up on everyone else being able to help me, and only relying on myself to make a change... been there, tried that. Epic fail, every time.

The hopelessness, loneliness, and dread that has consumed me since I was barely a teenager all seem to stem from guilt and shame. In the beginning, I felt immense shame that I couldn't make any of the sports teams that I tried out for, and was likely too young to comprehend why I felt that way. There were girls who were smaller than I was, weaker, even- but because their mom was on the PTA, they were chosen while I was left in the dirt. I started losing all of my friends, who quickly became too busy with sports and other extra curriculars to spend time with me outside of birthday parties, or too popular and cool to be seen speaking to a non-cheerleader. It felt much worse once I realized how guilty I felt, knowing that my dad wanted so badly for me to play sports. I wasn't good enough for those teams or my friends, and letting my dad down hit me like a ton of bricks. It didn't help my self-esteem at all when my younger sister started playing softball, and went on to be the MVP pitcher all throughout high school. Dad was so proud.

By then, I was basically seen as a lost cause by my family, and anyone I had formed friendships with. If I had to put a time frame on it, I guess I started getting worse, really leaning into my downward spiral, when I started to rebel against authority. I felt that if I wasn't good enough to even sit on a bench, pretty enough to be a cheerleader, or a good enough writer to have my Creative Writing teacher (who I deeply admired) write nice comments at the top of my A+ assignments, well then F**K them! If that's how the world was going to see me, then I was going to wear black eyeliner, listen to "emo"/punk, force myself into promiscuity and even monogamous relationships that I truly wasn't interested in, and not let anyone get in the way of who I wanted to be. The problem was, I had no idea who I wanted to be... who I was. Most of the time, I'm still unsure.

I fit into every stereotype you can imagine, when it comes to drug addicts. When you hear that label, "drug addict", I'm guessing what immediately pops into your head is something like this:

Probably homeless. Holding a sign that reads "anything helps" at the freeway exit ramp, or begging for a dollar outside of every gas station. Filthy, smell like death, and probably missing a few teeth, if not all of them. The really fun kind are usually screaming obscenities while pushing a stolen shopping cart down the bike lane of the street, despite the available sidewalk. The shopping cart contains nothing but trash collected from dumpsters, shiny things (still trash), and maybe a trashbag full of cans and bottles to be recycled. The person pushing the cart, with the bag of cans, never actually makes it to whatever spot they can be traded in for a few bucks.

Drug addicts sleep at bus stops, taking up the entire space so that you can't sit down while waiting for the bus, headed in for another long day of hard work. You want to wake them up and give them a piece of your mind, but- you never know, they might be crazy. They might have a weapon! They might hear your voice saying "Hey!" and be triggered into some kind of drug-induced homicidal rage... Or worse: they might try to touch you with those horrifyingly unwashed hands. You can practically see the bacteria crawling on their skin.

On second thought, they can sleep there. The police will deal with them, eventually.

Drug addicts either come from parents (or a parent, singular, while the other bailed at the first sign of responsibility) who were drug addicts, or from loving parents who they've completely abandoned, lied to, and likely robbed a few times. Drug addicts end up on the street, in jail, or dead. Those are their options, and if they try to get clean, their chances of staying clean are quite low. They will often spend their entire lives going in and out of rehab, in and out of jail, or prison, and still find themselves relapsing time and time again.

Drug addicts have felt hopelessness that the average person can't even imagine.

So, does that sound about right? I believe that some people are more judgmental than others. When I fit the exact description I just detailed, I'd get approached pretty regularly by the nice people who hand out snacks, bottles of water, socks, hygiene products... I definitely preferred the ones that left it at that, and didn't start asking me a bunch of questions about myself, or try to sell me on why their facility or program could be the one where I'd change my life for good. "Aren't you sick and tired of being sick and tired?"

I was tired. I grew so tired of coming up with excuses. I grew more and more ashamed for being the person who was always going to get clean tomorrow, not today, but absolutely, for sure this time, tomorrow.

Yes, tomorrow I'll wake up feeling rested and ready, and I'll walk through the front doors of that one place that one guy told me about that one time, and start filling out the paperwork for my intake, and pretty soon, if I'd just stay there and follow the rules, everything would be okay.

I'd be able to call my Dad from inside that place, and he'd tell me how proud he was, just like he always did. He'd hand the phone over to one of my grandparents, who would tell me that they'd never give up on me, and that they still prayed every night that I would get back on track so that we could all see each other all the time, like we used to. They'd pass the phone over to my little sister, now an adult with a husband, whose temporary place of work was my dream job. She'd tell me she still loved me, whether I believed her or not. She'd remind me for the thousandth time that all she wanted was for me to get better. We have that in common. Just the thought of talking to my family again would put a smile on my face, which was a rare occurrence.

Tomorrow never came.

My grandma passed away on February 27, 2026. It's so like her to finally let go on a day that I'd always remember. 27 is the day of the month that my birthday falls on, and it has been my favorite number since I learned of the "27 club". Kurt Cobain was my hero, but I found it fascinating how many other musical legends met their maker at the age of 27. I spent most of my life hoping that I'd join that club, but had a feeling I wouldn't make it that long. Here I am, nearly 35. I suppose I'll add that to the list of disappointments.

My grandparents raised me, while my parents only thought they were the ones raising me. My childhood memories almost entirely take place at my grandparents' house on Blackhawk Drive, or in their much larger house that they built in the mountains of Northern California. My grandma taught me what it meant to be a woman of class, and how to shop for the best deals at the grocery store. She taught me how to paint my nails, and how to get my way with any Customer Service representative. She taught me to never be afraid or embarrassed when ordering food exactly the way I liked it. She also taught me, maybe most importantly, I'm just now realizing, how to go on living after someone I loved has died.

My grandma lost both her mother, and her older sister (whom I'm named after) to cancer within a year of each other. Her biological father died when she was just two years old, though I can't remember how he died. My grandma was a crybaby. She never held back her emotions, except maybe while in public. She was far too classy to make a fool of herself or her husband (my Papa), after all. I learned from her that it was okay to cry, but once the tears stop, to pick myself up and carry on. I wish I would've lived my life by all of the things my grandma taught me. Maybe then she wouldn't have died before I had the chance to thank her, tell her how much better I was doing, or say goodbye. Maybe then she wouldn't have spent her final years constantly asking my poor Papa, "Have you heard from L yet?" or "Any word on if L is in jail again, or if she's alright?"

I won't be able to go on living, as my Grandma did, if I keep reminding myself of the pain and worry that I caused her, and the rest of my small family. I'll be forever grateful that my Papa, the businessman, the stoic, finally let his walls down and told me that he feels so alone, in a text message the day after my grandma finally left him. She died at peace, and he told me that she had made her decision. She couldn't go on living in such a state of misery anymore, and after 3 long years of falls leading to broken bones and constant pain, he told me that he couldn't ask her to just keep trying for a little longer, or to keep hoping for recovery. At over 80, it was her time.

My Papa had his first heart attack and stroke when I was just 2 years old. I think our whole family had always sort of mentally prepared ourselves for Papa to be the first to leave us. As morbid as that is, and as disgusting as I feel for admitting it, it's the truth. My grandma and I were extremely close, up until I turned 18 and was out on my own, and the ball was in my court to stay in touch with my family. I remember her telling me that it didn't really matter if her or my Papa died first, because she knew in her heart that they'd be together again, in a place called Heaven that was so beautiful we can't even picture it while we remain on Earth. My grandma believed in Jesus Christ, and she taught me as much as she could, but I was far too rebellious to ever submit control to someone or something I couldn't see. I wish I would've tried harder when I was younger.

She also told me that it was common with married couples, who spent many years together until they died of old age, for one to die shortly after the other. Those words are haunting me now, because with my Papa's heart problems (he's had a pacemaker for over a decade now), to die of a broken heart after losing the love of his life would be too beautiful and real for me to handle. If my Papa decides to go, so he and Grandma can reunite for eternity in Heaven, he at least better keep his promise to me that he doesn't plan on going anywhere just yet.

I know he's strong enough to give me just enough time to prove myself. I have to prove that I don't hate our family, and that I never meant to abandon them and fight their love for me for so many years. If my Papa had never sent that text, and never told me how alone he felt, I don't know when I would've found out my Grandma had died. That is a level of guilt and shame that I don't ever want to reach.

Despite my self-loathing and non-stop pity parties, I'm not completely un-self-aware. (There has to be a better word that I should've used there. Not being able to find the right word or phrase is something I beat myself up for constantly.) I'll often catch myself at the start of a downward spiral, feel even more pathetic that I'd let myself reach that point again, and do my best to pull myself out of it using only what remains of my pride, or using someone else's faith in me, too fearful of letting them down.

One thing I am 100% aware of is that I might not be alive today if it wasn't for one thing, or rather, one person: "J".

He's not perfect. Far from it, although I could easily spend the rest of my life typing out every single detail about him that I have been head over heels for since day one. I learn new things about him almost every day, so I'd likely find myself in a never-ending state of playing catch up, if I were to ever attempt putting my reasons for loving him into words. The one thing I'm not sure I'll ever figure out is what I did to deserve God deciding it was time for us to find each other- 5 years ago, next month.

Day one probably looks a bit different from "J's" point of view, because I'm not sure that he considers the first time that our eyes met to be the start of "us". The first time our eyes met, "J" was sitting in a circle of people (homeless people) at a park, in dreadfully itchy, dead grass. The kind with those awful spikes that get stuck in the rubber of your shoes. There were just enough clouds in the sky to block out the harsh sun, and the temperature was perfect, same as most days in Phoenix, Arizona.

He was the playing acoustic guitar and singing, while everyone else watched and listened. I'd bet it was the first time most of them had smiled in a while. I saw him from across the park and was walking alone, with no destination, but no intention of stopping any time soon. I slowly made my way closer, attempting to verify that I knew at least one person within the circle, so that I could sit down without causing any confusion or interruption- though I would've preferred if I were invisible.

Luckily, I knew almost all of the people sitting there in the dead grass, but I couldn't figure out why the guy with long hair, and a killer smile, wasn't someone I'd ever seen before. I would have remembered a face like that. He seemed too clean to be homeless, but too "grunge", too comfortable around a bunch of junkies and tweakers, and seemed way too accepted by those sitting around him to be a "nobody". When the moment finally happened that our eyes met, I felt like we had both started levitating. Suddenly he was playing his guitar and singing to me, and only me, as we floated in and out of the clouds. I'm sure I looked away first, but only to hide my broken smile. I'd never let a man get a smile out of me that easily. Not after I'd been hurt by so many. Not again.

I came crashing back down to Earth when it became apparent that he and the Native American girl who sat next to him were some kind of item, but I had been used and abused by far too many men to think about it for more than a little while. Within a few days, I learned his name, and I also learned that he sold drugs to a friend of mine, and had a good reputation in the area for years. He drove a small, black car, which he also lived in. I spent a couple of weeks trying to get my friend to introduce me, but because my "friend" was a dude, who had hit on me more than once or twice, and who would definitely overcharge me for drugs any chance that he could get away with, it was a big ask.

The first time that "J" and I ever spoke, outside of maybe a "hi" or "thanks" before or after a transaction, I found myself experiencing meth-induced psychosis for the first time. It was extremely attractive, maybe even sexy, I'm sure. I felt like I'd been walking for miles, hadn't slept in what felt like months, and was so scared that if I stopped walking, I'd be taken by the men who had been stalking me in their creepy van, just waiting to throw me inside so I'd never see the light of day again.

(Those men, and that van, did not exist. Not that night, anyway.)

It turns out that "good timing" has never really been J's thing, so while I'm anticipating my imminent kidnapping, and likely torturous murder, J pulls his car over and cuts off my path. He's lucky I saw that face of his, or it could've been pepper-sprayed before either one of us got a word out.

Instead, he took a chance on me, and despite conversations we've had going over our time together, I don't think I'll ever truly understand why he did what he did.

He asked if I was okay. He asked if I was hungry. He asked if I wanted to get in his car, even though we were complete strangers, and get some rest, because I "looked like I needed it". He offered to clear out the backseat, where his guitar was fastened in by the seatbelt, and said that he had clean pillows and blankets for me to use. He promised he wasn't a creep, and that I would be safe to sleep for as long as I needed to.

I wasn't okay. I was hungry. I wanted to get in his car, because I needed rest... I should've been skeptical. I had experienced way too much to trust a man I'd just met. That being noted in my brain, while still tweaked-out-of-my-mind, I opened the passenger side door, and I thanked him for rescuing me. I don't think I ever told him that I had been running from kidnappers in a scary van that wasn't really there.

We certainly didn't plan to spend the next 18 hours or so talking to each other, asking deep and personal questions, basically feeling out whether or not we were compatible to be anything more than "road dogs".

I certainly didn't expect that on that very first night, we'd fall in love. Not just one-sided, "gee, I really hope he likes me as much as I like him" type of stuff, but the real deal. It was the last thing that either of us were looking for, felt worthy of, or would've believed would turn into what our life together is today.

I'm hitting fast-forward through all of our adventures, traveling the country, getting clean off of drugs, getting back on drugs, getting arrested after spending the night nearly dying of frostbite, spending days and years apart when either one of us was behind bars, because the best part of our story is where we are today, and I can only see it getting better from here.

After J got out of prison, the longest we'd been apart, he finally decided that he'd had enough of the lifestyle we were living, and he wanted to do right by his family, and himself. While I don't believe it was about me at that point in time, I believe he wanted to reach a point where he could provide another option, a better life, for me. I had spent the entire time that he was locked up out on the street, alone. I'd find other guys who I felt were capable of keeping me safe from "bad guys", but the process of finding guys I could trust enough to not turn into bad guys themselves was a hell of a time. I don't want to go into detail of what happened to me while J was away, because if he ends up reading this, I don't want it to put any image back into his head after all this time. None of that matters anymore.

What matters is that after all of that time, despite how selfish I was, too strung out or too busy trying to get strung out to even write him a letter, we remained together- if only in our dreams. On the nights that I felt the most alone, I'd finally end up getting to sleep after his voice would sing to me in my head for hours. I'd finally stop shaking from the cold, as long as I could put my back up against a wall so that it almost felt as if he was cuddled up close to me, keeping me warm, with his insane body heat that never cooled. I don't know exactly what prison was like for him, but I know that he could feel me there with him, too.

Our life looks very different today, but in some ways are still the same. I haven't been the partner that he deserves, and I haven't shown him how much I appreciate him. I've developed a new problem, known as "bedrotting", and it has caused my physical and mental health to deteriorate faster than I ever thought possible. He worries. He works so hard to keep a roof over our heads. He stresses out, but does his best to not let it show. He loves and takes great care of our baby- Bella, a black lab mix that we rescued from a homeless woman who was once a friend, who couldn't take care of herself, let alone a dog. I'm very convincing at reassuring him that I'm feeling better, or at least that's what I tell myself.

All I want is to be the person who makes his life easier, and not harder. All I want is for him to know how much I love him, and how grateful I am that he worked so hard to build a foundation for us, and for inviting me back into his life, and into our home. All I want is for him to feel as loved and cared for as I do. All I want is for us to live out the rest of our lives as happy and carefree as we possibly can. I might not deserve it right now, but he does.

I want to do better.

I need to do better.

I've tried and failed so many times, it feels like I have nothing left to give.

I keep praying to a God that has never answered my prayers; He's never sent even the smallest sign, when I've begged and pleaded for anything at all that might provide me some comfort.

Silence. Deafening silence, and the most overwhelming loneliness imaginable is what I received. Every time.

Since the death of my grandma, who loved me with all her heart, I've finally felt a shift. My energy has been up, my once nonexistent motivation has spiked, and I can tell that J has been surprised, relieved, and just a little annoyed with my excessive energy and inability to stop talking his ears off.

I just can't let myself crash and burn again. I've experienced this same type of high before, and it feels so similar to the times where I've eventually felt that I'd spent every bit of energy within me until nothing remained. It felt as though I had run out of gas to keep driving in the right direction, or any direction.

I felt stuck. Until very recently, I've still been stuck.

I still feel stuck, except it's now in more ways than one. I feel stuck in my head, stuck in my bed, and stuck without any sign of a way out. I feel spent, unmotivated (every time I take a step to get something done), and alone (even though I have J to fall back on for support, no matter how big or small, he's always there when I need him). It's truly baffling, considering that all I want is to feel better, so I can be better. For J, for my family that has just a few members remaining, and for myself.

I guess I've written all that I can for tonight. I think finding this website, and making the decision to type my diary entries rather than using the last few sheets of paper in one of J's old beat-up notebooks from work or rehab, was the right call. Recently, I've found myself leaving comments on random YouTube videos that will likely never be read by another person, or sending emails to content creators that I'd like to send feedback to, just to feel some sense of human connection. That's probably why I liked the idea of "Open Diaries", where others can leave comments, if they so choose.

By the way, if you're reading this and you're human (or even if you don't feel entirely human, that's okay)- please, comment. Don't overthink it. Any words that I know are coming from another person on Earth will do me some good.

If you do decide to comment, thank you. I appreciate it, a lot.

Forever dwelling in nightmares of my own creation, desperate to find my way out,

-L