When I was young, my thoughts tortured me. My mind was constantly racing. I could not sleep at night. I suffered extreme anxiety. The result was pages upon pages of mostly senseless thoughts written in notebooks I still keep. At one point, after I had been hospitalized in 2000, I pored through the notebooks and destroyed the writing I found too painful to revisit. From what I recall, this process took days. Still, much of it remains.

I share this with you so you can see how my brain worked…and did not work…then. I did not like myself when I wrote these entries. I hated the way I thought, the way I couldn’t connect my ideas, the way I was incapable of functioning. And I had no idea what was going on. I thought my problems stemmed solely from character flaws, not a chemical imbalance. I was very confused and trapped in a constant cycle of guilt and shame. Looking back now, I realize my mind had, in a sense, separated. To deal with the constant pain of everyday life — the real struggles I faced at home and the clear onset of bipolar disorder — my writing was almost always nonsensical. Nothing had anything to do with anything. Diverting my thoughts to pure nonsense protected me from the tortures I suffered in my mind. These entries are truly stream of conscience and are entered as they were written at the time. Items with strike-throughs have actually been crossed out in the notebook.

February 2, 1996

19 years old.

The Diary of a Broken Woman

February 2, 1996. 9:40pm. It is a dark, chilly night. I sit here, my feet folded underneath me, and I laugh about life. How it sucks. How it rocks. How it’s also the name of a popular cereal. The light shines brightly from overhead, and somehow it seems to offer a cheeriness that thankfully contrasts the deepness of the dark that swallows the earth outside. Boo, sayeth a ghost. Boo, sayeth me back. He is not scared. I put on my overalls. The television blares crazily in the background. I don’t pay much attention. Hello, Mr. TV. Hello, Lori. Where did my toothbrush go? I don’t know.

I bought a new toothbrush. It is orange. I think that happy, bright colors promote the cleanliness of the teeth in America. Yours, mine, nuns and monks alike. It may just be me, but nothing says “Brush your teeth, friend” like a sunny orange toothbrush. And so I do. At least once a month. After every meal or major snack. And so should you, my hygenic friend.

Class. Style. Wit. Cool shoes. Lori.

Oh sing to me, sweet songbird. Tweet, tweet, tweet.

List of Things You Might Be Heard Shouting After Breaking Up With Someone

The Amish don’t do cartwheels.

My dearest Lori,

You are my gorgeous little buttercup. How I miss the sweet whisper of your adorable voice. Come to Paris with me and dance about the legs of the Eiffel Tower in the moonlight. We should have such fun. You will love the class that the city has to offer, for you embody its every charm. Come, come with me, mon cherie, and be my little souffle. I will be so sad if you leave me all alone, and I shant enjoy being in such a huge city without a heart like yours to share it with.

With Love,

A Frenchman named Guy (pronounced Gey)

Dear Guy,

Thank you for your lovely letter, but you know that both my heart and soul are deeply rooted in my own United States. Please do not cry and let your tears spoil that magnificently cute little moustache of yours.

Love,

Lori (pronounced Lori)

There were fifty people anxiously waiting on the crowded boulevard, standing there in the freezing cold, just waiting to get inside the building, hoping that once they had entered the heat would envelope them, warming their chapped faces and hands. The ladies were dressed in their best evening attire, most were adorned in black, this seemed to say a lot about the mood. The gentlemen were dressed just as nicely. Distinguished hats topped their heads, scarves of wool were wound carefully around their necks, in a futile attempt to keep out the menacing chill. The men hold the hands of their wives, offering a sort of support only a deep love could provide.