That's how it is:  I live devoid of emotion. It takes care of any "secrets" I might otherwise record and leave behind when I’m gone. I cannot even honestly face the question, Will I ever get well?

I can't go into emotions: that's playing with fire.

So I be Mildred-

and be Mildred-

and it's not me.

And I hate it- I really do- if I would think about it.

But then I panic. I must not panic: it wears me out. So I be Mildred.

I just want to knock her face in. Going around like that, pretending to be me, laughing and telling everyone I was only being dramatic.

Does everyone feel stuck in their life like I do? I didn't always: I had things going there for a while- but they fell flat when I lost my energy and mind, again.

Pressure. There's so much pressure in my head. I panic.

I feel like posting this whole mess where Mildred’s friends could see it. In a fit of rebellion, of course. But that would cause such upset for everyone, which makes me panic. They ask questions I can't answer and I am consumed with guilt for not having answers-

I have to be calm. I have to be calm. But I am not anything really: I am not living; I am not dead- and nobody knows me.

Dorothy