Once upon a time, I was an awesome, vivacious, funny girl full of potential, I scored highest on tests and won debates and starred in school plays and wrote papers that became the standard for good writing. In my spare time, I trawled my local coffee shops and had deep discussions with college students and drank with older boys and snuck out and snuck in and slept with whomever I felt like and never felt guilty, except for taking virginities because boys were always so… needy, and falling in love with me. Which was annoying. And I fell in love with one of those older boys and it wasn’t some kind of love that a teenager has, it was something more, and really probably the only thing that was actually as mature as I pretended to be. Not that I knew that at the time. Things happened and we were young and he moved away and I moved away and then a couple years later we both came back, searching for each other, and pretty much fell into each other’s arms and just… chose each other and chose whatever the fuck happened, together. And because it’s me and I’m an actress and I’ve always been hypersexual and because I’ve always wanted my life to be like a tragic Russian novel, I also chose to keep living life in daring and taboo ways, a task my husband generally agreed to because we’re both kind of perverts and I’m very… persuasive. These experiments pretty much ended after we had children. Well, didn’t really end, but shifted form. And then my first manic episode happened. And shit got real.
Voices, delusions of grandeur, major depression, impulsive spending, sex, drugs, rock n’ roll, soul stealing, consensual crime erotica, co-dependence… I could put put 50 Shades to shame. And I want to. I want to every day of my life. I want to write that fucking book, about sexual deviation and soul-wrenching love and moral ambiguity and the extreme dysfunction of passion and why Love Story is the most fucking accurate one I’ve ever read.
But I can’t. I’m too depressed. And I drink waaaaaaaay too much. And I’m sick of it. So this is me asking for help. I want to get into treatment but I don’t have money, so I need help. I’m sorry for depressing you recently. But seriously. I can be so much better. So help me out. Please. You can donate here:
And I will write it. For real. And I’ll also figure out how to use links better. That’s a promise.