I took my vacation in Texas. I didn't do nearly as much as I thought of doing, and I spent three of eight days there just relaxing around the house I rented on airbnb. Then, the weekend after I came back, I bought a new truck. I rather like it, and it made me feel very good. However, I can't help but fight the suspicion that something bad is coming. I'm trying to work on my novel, but it's very slow going. I have to keep pushing back the estimated completion date; it's now sometime in the second half of next year. I feel like this novel has the potential to be my life's work, the best I've done yet. But it's so hard to stay motivated and not to second-guess myself. I keep deleting entire swaths of it and then rewriting them, only to do it again later. It's very hard to make progress. Still, I have to keep reminding myself this is just a draft, and any problems can be worked out in rewrites later.

I still hate myself. I've hated myself for so long, over 20 years now, I think it's permanent. I think this disease has permanently warped my mind and I'm no longer capable of functioning mentally like a normal, healthy person. I can't establish relationships or engage with people normally. I'm just sort of resigned to my life now. I may try to get back into dating later this year, but I doubt anything will come of it. I tried the apps, but those are a disaster. I regret how I've wasted my life.