I need help. What if I can't make it? I hear myself talk to him, and I can't believe some of the things I say. What if I don't have the control? It terrifies me when I think that I do. Is that really me? No, no. An imposter. I don't sound like that. Those aren't my thoughts.

It's too hard. It's been less than a week and I'm freaking out. How can I keep doing this to myself? Dreams come up, they get a yes, no, yes, no, yes, no, yes, no... then there's dark, and alone. All alone. I can't do this.

What's next? A year. One more year. One more year until forever starts. No, no. One more year until forever blinks. It will show you a glimpse and then shut off again. To and from, back and forth. Who goes where next time? Oh, we'll see. Because "it's meant to be!" Oh, yes.

Yesterday was there, it was good. Tomorrow is a year away. In between is this big black nothing. What do I do with that? It's miserable. Black is not my color, and it's definitely not slimming in this circumstance. It's fat and unforgiving. I don't want it, no no no. I want tomorrow. I crave tomorrow. I don't want to go without. I can't.

BJ had to hang up on me tonight. He always politely tries to excuse himself. I wouldn't let him go. Things were spewing out of my mouth like fire. I keep waiting for him to have a reaction. I want him to feel like I feel, but he won't. He doesn't. He's just fine. I'm a mess, but he's fine. I fall down, and he floats above me, waiting to pull me up again, and again, and again. Just once, I wish he were on the floor next to me.

That happened once. We both broke down. In some way, it made me happy. BJ and I were finally on the exact same page. Our tears mixed together, and we cried, and we shook, and I knew he felt the way I did. I just wish I always had that assurance. I don't though, and I feel crazy.

He tells me we can't always both be so down, and nobody likes being brought down. He's right. I'm the down one, again again again. That's me. Down so low I match the carpet. I patch it with my mass of blahness. We're the same, the floor and I. Flat and frequently walked on. Ugly and beaten. BLAH. We can't both be down, someone has to pull the other up. Why can't I be the one up? Oh, that's right. Because I'm me. Poor BJ. He has my pity.

I keep making the wrong choices. They have to be the wrong ones! Otherwise, I have an amazing talent for screwing up the right ones. It's soooo sad. The only thing right is BJ. It's interesting... I literally watch and listen to myself attempting to sabotage things. He doesn't let it happen, obviously... but I forced him to hang up on me tonight.

Everytime he said he had to go, I cried. I couldn't stop myself. I didn't want to be left alone. I said I was sorry, I didn't want to drag him down. I just wanted him to stay. I wanted him to say he loved me, I wanted him to imitate an elephant. I wanted him to hold my hand across the country. I wanted him to be with me. He tried, and I pushed, and I pushed, and I pushed. I told him if he wanted to leave, he would have to hang up on me. So he did.

I cried long, and I cried hard. I'm always so worried about losing him, and here I am pushing him out the door. Right when he said goodnight, the switch flipped, and I was me again. I said "BJ, wait..." But he had already gone. What did I do that for?

He'll call me in the morning, he says. I'm under attack. As if things aren't bad enough. I feel possessed. I say all the wrong things, and I know they're wrong while I'm saying them...and I can't make them stop. As they say in "Mean s", it's word vomit. It's horrible, yet recognizable...and I can't make it stop. I can't do anything right.

My mom is already back in her old routines. I'm wasting my life, my mind, my everything... I'm a failure. My mom is the only person I know who can make you believe that God invented oxygen for everyone but me... because all I do is waste it with my sloth-like behavior, doing nothing with my pathetic excuse for an existence. So what if I was a drama director at age 18? So what if I write plays and have them performed? Every accomplishment means nothing... nothing because it's nothing to her, because she doesn't care. She did nothing with her life, and yet she's happy. I've done so much while still so young, and that matters less than nothing. I almost forgot how terrible she makes me feel.

Whatever, I shouldn't write anymore. What do you care, right? Anonymous, anonymous. My friends are all anonymous. I'll meet you someday, oh you invisible few.

Dear Lord, please help me banish whatever it is that's attacking me. I can't wake up.