Here I am again, writing to get myself together. I do own plenty of paper diaries, but, somehow, I've made this my home, although I'm always away. I cannot believe I keep getting trapped like this. Do you know that feeling when you're buried under sand and every single centimeter of your body is
being pressed and crushed? It's how I feel right now. There's this pressure on my chest that doesn't even allow me to breathe, let alone cry. I tried the drinking, the working, the talking. None of it works. Maybe the writing will work. Followed by bathing and chocolate eating. And a lobotomy, please! I don't really know how much longer I can do this to myself. Giving myself over to others has been the worse idea I've repeatedly had over the course of my life. One day I will turn into that bitter old maid. And then maybe I will finally be numb.
