June 14th, 1975
It occurs to me what a tragedy this journal is. Weary groans, anxious pleas. What is wrong with me? What is wrong. Everything is wrong lately. For at least the past three weeks I’ve been on a thin brink of collapse. Moods. Horrible dark deep depressions that overwhelm me. It all centers at home. My days envelope me. As if tubes were hooked into my arms draining me of some vital powers. From the moment I set foot into the house, the nightmare begins. It doesn’t end until several hours later when I am totally beneath an alcoholic stupor and the night is over. I am several hours into this process now.
Oh shut up, you goddamned whining miserable asshole. Look at you.
Look at you!
We just read your New York diary today where you were writing from point-blank hysteria from the Y in New York City. All you needed, all you wanted was a home.
So here you sit in a beautiful, two-story, three-bedroom home in Arlington, Virginia with a lover who worships you, two dogs, two cats, and a lovely garden.