I'm sorry that I haven't written in a really long time but things have not been good and I'm pretty sure you know that, Carol.

I've been so sick lately and it's not fun. Like, some people enjoy being sick and staying home but I hate it. I take my medication and everything so I don't understand why this keeps happening, but it does. Isn't medicine supposed to make you feel better?

Anyway, things got really rough a couple days ago.

I was alone in my room and had a bit of a breakdown and ended up throwing a lamp across the room, and the stupid lightbulb broke into a million little pieces and there was glass everywhere and I started crying because I didn't know how I was supposed to clean it all up before my mom came back home.

I've been seeing you for about a year now, Carol, so you know that sometimes I just freak out and lose it. No one has ever been able to figure out why exactly I do this but it happens. I get angry and I throw things and then I end up crying because I feel so bad.

Sometimes I feel like I'm so worthless and it's really not a good feeling at all. I have no one to talk to about this, no one except this stupid journal. I mean, I guess I'm technically talking to Carol, but it's not the same. You don't do shit for me, Carol.

I called Maya the other day after I freaked out. She was probably really startled because I was sobbing into the phone and just begging her to come over and help me and we don't even know each other that well but for some reason I trusted her more with this than I trust my best friend or my step brother.

She kept asking me what was wrong and if I was hurt and if I was going to be okay and she wanted to know if she should call my mom but I just told her to come over as soon as she could.

I gave Maya my address and I told her that we hide a spare key under the welcome mat and she could come upstairs and find my room, no one else was home at the time. Maya was in my room 10 minutes later and she helped me clean up the mess I'd made.

It felt nice to have someone care about me like that, I don't think that any of my other friends would have come over if I had called them like that.

When my mom got back home that day I told her that I wasn't feeling good and she just told me to take a nap and see if I felt better later. She also reminded me to take my meds.

I went back to my room and cried a little more because for once I wished that my mom would smother me with questions and try to figure out what was wrong with me instead of just sending me to my room.

I guess this is what I get for pushing everyone away for so long.

I'm sorry for being so messed up. I'm sorry that I'm like this. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so damn sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry.