What the hell am I doing?

Sarah and I smoked and walked around North Campus last night. It was like going back in time. "Team M" is still there on the wall of the nook, pitch black, the same as it looked when Will wrote it nearly three years ago. "This is where Stephanie and I used to sit and smoke cigarettes," I told her. I had to actually bite my tongue to keep from completing the thought, "while we were up all night on Ritalin binges."

I'm just so angry, and I don't want to be. You've failed me, wasted my time. You've pressured me into this situation-- I was too stupid to resist, and now I'm too far in to get out. You don't want me, and that hurts the most of all. The sick part is, I don't want you either! I'm just hurt and humiliated because I put myself out there, and you don't even understand. That's why I can't get over it. That's why I can't just let it be. I have to keep picking at it, like a scab; I'm just waiting to bleed.

But what if I'm already there? If something was seriously wrong, I can't say with any confidence that I would be able to acknowledge it. I survived the worst year of my life, blissfully unaware that anything was amiss. It's not in my nature to ask for help! It never has been.

The most frustrating part is that I have a great life. I'm very lucky. I have a job, a place to live, food to eat, friends to talk to, a car, health insurance. These are all very big things! Something just doesn't compute. I am in such a good place on the outside, and so wrong on the inside.

This is why I did drugs. This is why I smoke, why I drink, why I misuse sex. If I don't feel the same way on the inside that I do on the outside, I prefer to feel nothing.

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