Monday Evening

Good evening,

I am surprised as to how the stats on this blog are shooting up.

I have spent most of the day blogging and sitting here, didn't feel like swimming.

Eventually I went out for a bus ride, didn't really enjoy it, it tends to trigger flashbacks and depression, I feel so utterly useless with nowhere to go and nothing to live for and just horrors of what has happened going on and on through my head, as well as horrors for what may happen.

I am back here, still blogging.
I have no decent food left.

On Wednesday it is my Birthday, and I will be just as isolated and miserable, this is not Jersey, where I had a full life until the end horrors in 2010. Here I have nothing, I battle uselessly to keep a roof over my head and food on the table, but there is no reason, nothing to live for, and on the money I am on, I can't create a reason to live, this is why people use their money on drink and smokes, because there is no pleasure in life and none can be created, I cannot even do sports that are free because of my condition, and I feel too depressed to swim or walk at the moment.
 I am still waiting for the Diocese to launch, and to them, my Birthday would be as good a day as any.

On my Birthday I will not even have enough money for a few days food, let alone a week, and no money to go out to cinema or anywhere. I will be alone, I have had to flee my friends or ask for space due to the attachment disorder and this downhill struggle of living indoors.
Basically it is going to be like every Birthday since the Churchwarden and his wife wrecked my Birthday with their daughter/not daughter rows.
 It's a non-Birthday, and especially since Jane Fisher ended my life with the police, what is the point of another Birthday branded so that work, education and social life are beyond me and the shame and blame segregates me from people and means I cannot even hope to believe in myself.

Anyway, the week goes on as every week goes on, a balancing act of trying to find food and pay rent, a balancing act of sitting here or dragging myself out there for air and exercise and fear of being seen and beaten and detained by police.
 It doesn't matter how old I get, I can't do anything with this life and my life stopped in a police cell long ago.

 And if any of those rotten pranksters from Jersey are reading this, if you send money through the Dean for my Birthday, I will have you arrested, that was a sick joke and the sickest thing apart from it giving the Diocese a chance to injure me again, and Bob Hill resoundingly following that up, I do not have a bank account, sending cheques for me is very cruel, but then, you knew damn well what you were doing, didn't you?