I feel like I might as well whip out the many diaries I never wrote in as a child and as a teenager. Those ones that I continued to buy, telling myself that I’d write in them, as though my life was that interesting.
It’s not even interesting now. Maybe I’m doing it because I can’t afford therapy. Who am i kidding, that’s exactly why I’m doing this. I don’t expect anyone to read or even care. I’m just going on the off chance that it’ll make me feel better.
So, here it goes.
My name is Shelly. It’s not my real name, obviously. The last thing I need is someone I know to recognize me. As it says in my bio (that I doubt anyone read) I stay at home all day, taking care of my mentally ill mother.
Don’t worry, I’m not some 40 year old that lives…
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