May 15th, 1982

Utterly depressed. I am depressed because I know what is going to happen to me today. Nothing. And nothing happened yesterday, or the day before. Nothing happened last week or last month. Nothing happened last year. In fact— nothing has happened to me for 416 days— not since the first day I went without a drink. And nothing is going to happen. One tedious lonely day piled on top of another. No joy. No romance. No excitement. Sobriety is the death of the heart— the suffocation of the imagination. I wish, with every particle of strength in my being, that I were dead.