I have done, this year, what I said I would: overcome my fear of facing a blank page day after day, acknowledging myself, in my deepest emotions, a writer, come what may.

The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

I smile, now, thinking: we all like to think we are important enough to need psychiatrists

God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathing? Of glory and disgust?

My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.

I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.

I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.