I am a ball of anxious energy.

I throw up most food that I stuff down my throat. What I do keep down makes me nauseated.

I keep trying to relax, but I just can't. I take deep breaths and the nervousness seeps back in when I exhale. That is a terrible feeling.

My dreams are worse than ever. In them he's angry, and doesn't remember who I am. I have these dreams because I haven't been able to grieve yet.

This year I’m going to see someone about my dreams. I will see someone spiritual, not a psychiatrist. Dreams are special and important. People have forgotten that.

I feel unable to write anything. That's when I know things are bad. Not the other way around. I don't have brilliant ideas from sickness. I have sick ideas from sickness. I always forget that people love to read sick material. Why is that?

It's the same idea as gossip. People love to observe other people's misfortune. I think that's sick.

I personally like it when good things happen to people I love. I want good things for myself, and for them. I'm secretly a fan of wholesomeness and happiness. I have my own idea of what each means, I'm a fan of my personal meanings.

I hear little voices behind me, around me. It’s because I live in an apartment building and the fish tanks make enough white noise to mask most sound, but it tends to make me feel crazy all the same.

I'm tired of feeling like I need to justify myself to other people. I need a break from all the drama. I want to get out of here alone. But there are things to do. Always responsibilities. Always.