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2002-08-28 | 11:41 p.m.

Small shrieking pain in my sides every time I take a breath. Could be nothing.

Could be something.

I have to go to Dr. Wheat's tomorrow. Don't want to go. He will ask me if I have written, and I'll have to say, No, Dr. Wheat, still haven't written. It's been two weeks since my last confession.

I feel myself sinking. Don't want to talk to Dr. Wheat anymore. Don't want to talk to anyone, ever. Thanks anyway. Rory told me that in Alaska, they eat heavy pastries to fatten up against the cold. Similarly, my low moods insulate me through the winter. I am fine, actually, and I get along just fine and nothing is amiss. Nothing at all amiss except that I don't want to talk to anybody or let anybody see me. Is that so wrong?

We don't talk anymore about the possibility that I might be depressed. Because when I go there, I am animated. I am NOT depressed. I'm just down, and I can go lower. I provide the entertainment. But I have become boring. I want to go there and say nothing for the entire time. What I really want to do is cancel, but I already cancelled last week. I should just go in there and say I don't want to go anymore. He always talks me into it. I'm such a pushover. I don't want to go, don't want to talk, nothing. Go to bed: that's it. When Fall comes, I like to read in bed. That's enough for me.

Watch this: Watch me go lower.

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