I hate repeating myself. It's hard and it leaves me raw and tired and it never accomplishes anything. It's my story, after all, and sometimes I'm afraid that telling it as many times I do makes it less a part of me, that it starts to become public property, and I'll be damned if you'll take that from me.

Plus, you don't care. None of you care, not enough to do anything hard and actually help me, just enough to absorb my hurt and pass me along to someone else, while the fucking hold music plays on the phone. You care just enough to make yourself feel like you're a good person, so you can sleep easily at night in your comfortable bed.

Oh, one last thing before I even start. Fuck university. Fuck potential. Fuck the future. I've heard it before. Tell me something I can try to believe or don't say anything at all. I swear I'm just this close to swallowing a bottle of pills or jumping in front of a train or running out into traffic, and if you want to keep that from happening, you won't tell me to make happy. Okay? Good. So here it is.

I am depressed, not like I broke a nail but like the real thing, low serotonin, lethargy, suicidal feelings and all. Did you know that Ophelia went to hell because she killed herself? Well, she did. It's murder. That's what the gravediggers were joking about in that scene.

Anyways, depression. I'm on the meds, but I hate taking them because they make me feel dead inside – no, fuck you, I'm allowed to be the judge of my own emotions. I'm not crazy after all, just depressed.

The pills help a bit but honestly the real problem is that I'm alone. I wake up alone – yes, we broke up yesterday – and I eat alone and I sleep alone and I hate it. I need to see you guys more often but even though I know that and I want to see you, I'm always scared of what you'll say or what you'll do and I don't want more things to be out of my control. If it wasn't for the drugs I'd probably be anorexic too.