I mentioned earlier that I felt better.
That was before.
Actually, I'm worse now than I was last semester.
...
Yeah.
...
So.
...
...
Meg asked me tonight, "What's your problem?" And I sobbed and said, "I don't know."
I don't know what my problem is. I don't know why it's getting worse. I'm sure I would if I thought about it, but I don't want to think about it. I don't want to start poking around only to discover that it's far worse than I thought and I'll never be cured and I'll live my life NOT as a lobsterman's wife, but as some poor, crazy sap at a loony bin who never finds love and then escapes to collect grocery bags into a stolen cart and scream at people when they get too close to her corner.
There is something seriously wrong with my mind.
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