June tenth, 8:03 PM

Well this is definitely a foreign situation. Here it is a Friday night, and right about now the Gaslamp Quarter is crawling with cute younger guys, and older wealthy men, looking for a sugar baby. There is a new lavender dress hanging in my closet, and I’m sporting the latest “in” haircut- a face frame, with long layers. Yet, here I sit at home, writing in this silly composition book. Let me start by saying that this diary or journal, or whatever it is called, was the entire idea of my therapist, Dennis. “You must come to terms with your past, Sheedley, if you are going to recover. Buy yourself a journal and tell it everything. Keep it in a safe place where no-one will ever find it. Extracting the poison is the first step to recovery,” he crooned, in his PR voice. I really don’t know how a journal is going to help me, but at this point I am willing to try anything, and this here is my first step. Well, since I finished journaling so soon, I think I just may slither into my new dress and head over to the Gaslamp for a bourbon. No harm in one drink.

June 11th, 4:03 PM

June gloom is in full effect. Today I took a ride down to Sunset Cliffs, and watched the waves crashing against the rocks below. The horizon was gray and bleak, endlessly stretching towards Russia. The entire time that I was there my smart phone sat on the passenger seat, still and silent. No-one called or text messaged me. No-one likes me anymore.

June 19th, 2:27 PM

OK, I know it’s been a little bit since I have written last. I kinda forgot about journaling. Dennis admonished me for letting so many days lapse between journal entries. “Time is money Sheedley, and in your case, recovery. The more you journal, the more progress you will make.” I suppose he is right. Maybe if I view my life on paper I will see exactly what I am doing wrong glaring right back at me. Then I can be more clear on what I need to do to make things right. So, here is a summary of my life: I’m twenty-nine-years old. I’m single and live alone in a fashionable loft in the heart of downtown San Diego. I drive a Bentley. Some of my hobbies are going to the beach, working out, shoplifting, and making men fall in love with me. My mother Julia, a Russian immigrant, lives further inland San Diego. We don’t agree on very much, so we rarely speak. My father, whom I have spoken less than two-hundred words to my entire life, has a restraining order against me. He sends me yearly checks, though. I appreciate the money, but I just wish that he would talk to me. As it is, I don’t have many people who want to be around me anymore. It is a tough pill to swallow, but it IS my own fault. That’s kind of why I am in therapy to begin with. It all started with a bad cold: One night after the gym I lay down, feeling strangely weak and achy. I slept for twelve hours, and awoke with a fever and chills. For the next week and a half I lay in bed, sleeping and hacking until my ab muscles ached. I was sicker than I had ever been, and in my waking moments I came to the crushing realization of just how truly alone I was in the world. If I died, no one would even notice except for maybe Sheila, my landlord, when she came hunting for the rent. But other than Sheila, people were used to me disappearing. I was exceptional at it. If I didn’t want to be reached, I wouldn’t be reached. Of course everyone would just give up after awhile. I had seen people give up on me time and again, and most of the time I was relieved by it. But now, the opposite would prove more effective. Where was the person in my life who wouldn’t give up on me? Who would be the one to persist in finding out how I was doing? To see whether I was sick, or lonely? There was no-one like that. No-one to hold my hand and tell me that everything would be alright, or to go down and pay the rent so that I wouldn’t have to drag my sick self out of bed to do so. Throughout my illness, as I lay there, cloaked in misery, I thought of my late model Bentley. It had been a gift from Hamid, an Iranian ex-bf. I loved that car more than I had even LIKED Hamid. I had dumped him through text message after he started insisting we should marry. Hamid was annoying and unattractive but he was inherently wealthy, so I had let him believe that I loved him, and that got me the Bentley. As proud as I was of that car, it wouldn’t be coming upstairs to cuddle me and feed me chicken noodle soup anytime soon. It was just a possession. If I had married Hamid, at least I would have had a warm body around to help out. It was in the absence of all the superficial distractions that usually filled my day that caused me to realize how completely devoid of substance my life was. Sure I had plenty of money and valuable possessions from my numerous fake relationships, but what was any of that worth when it really came down to just myself and my health? During the period that I was ill, I thought frequently of Ned. Ned was a guy that I had dated a couple of years earlier. He was the closest thing that I had ever had to a real relationship. He was in love with me and I was fond of him, despite the fact that he was neither wealthy nor exceptionally good-looking, like the rest of my boyfriends. Ned did have a great sense of humor though; he could really make me laugh. And he had a kind nature about him. He produced a single carat ring, and proposed to me on a picnic in Balboa Park. I had accepted, despite the fact that I felt resistance to the concept of settling down into the confinements of one man, no matter how great a guy he was. I knew that I wasn’t ready. I was only twenty-seven, and still restless. I should have just broken it off with Ned, but I didn’t. A part of me didn’t want to let him go, even though I was very certain that I was incapable of marrying him. As Ned grew more eager to start planning our wedding, I inwardly wrestled with my doubts, while keeping up an eager front for him. Then I met Fadi, a wealthy playboy who incessantly told me how “breathtakingly beautiful” I was.  Maybe subconsciously I saw an out, and I cheated on Ned with Fadi. It was a torrid but short lived affair. Ned would have never even known about it if Fadi hadn’t shown up unannounced at my apartment one afternoon while I was in the shower. When I emerged from the bathroom, Ned was sitting on the bed, staring at the floor. I had playfully dropped my towel, and said “check this out,” pointing to my fresh bikini trim. Ned had looked up, and his eyes had slowly traveled over my body, as if seeing me for the first time. I reached down and picked up the towel, suddenly self conscious. “Ned? What is the matter?”  “Who is Fadi?” He asked quietly. “Ummmm, what?” I uttered dumbly, in complete disbelief that Ned had just uttered the name Fadi. My mind raced over any possible shred of evidence linking me to Fadi. He wasn’t in my cell phone contacts. In fact, my phone was always locked, so if Ned HAD been attempting to snoop, he wouldn’t have gotten very far.  “Fadi. A tall guy with dark hair and eyes…he showed up here just a little bit ago, with flowers.” I stared at Ned, dread mounting in the pit of my stomach, scared to hear what he would say next. “He started cussing and yelling at me in French when I told him that he was wrong, because this was where MY girlfriend lived…”  I had nodded hurriedly. “It was a just a wrong address, Ned.” Ned shook his head and his brown eyes searched mine. “He said his girlfriend’s name was Sheedley Aleksandrov.”