Stop. Alright, you don’t want to do this. There is no way you are ever going get past all this anyway, so just don’t. I tell myself that, and I keep trying, as if somehow it’s going to help. I know that it is never going to do anything. I wish that it did though, because this whole experience is just tearing me apart. I swear if I could go back and make none of this happen, I wouldn’t do it. I know, people say that all the time. But I really feel that I am a better person with this experience than not, and besides, my sister always used to tell me “if a stranger offers you candy; take it.” I knew she meant take what was there, and accept what is given to you, and I do try to live by that sometimes. I think it is important at times, but can be misleading if taken the wrong way. I have no idea if I ever took it the right way or not, but I am turning out human, and I guess that means it’s working. Everyone tells me I’m a weird person. I know that they are probably right, but I just don’t understand. I always thought I was just a very boring normal person, that no one noticed, but apparently I’m strange, and mysterious, and this leaves me to question myself. Sometimes I even wonder if I’m alive. I just wish that someone would notice me, it’s not that I want attention, it’s just that I want to know that other people see me, that I’m real, living. It’s probably sick, but ever since she wrote that, I’ve thought more about it, and the more I’ve noticed no one looks at me except a very limited amount of people. And they all tend to be a part of my own realty, so I’m starting to wonder how real I am. These questionable ideas of mine, these ever wondering ideas that wonder my mind, I wonder if they will ever get answers. I sometimes doubt it, and other times I just write until something comes out I think is useful, I never let anyone read these things, and I somehow generally destroy them. My English teacher calls it free-writing, but all I call it is expression. I don’t know why. I’m a little tired of my repetitive moods, my depression, and my emotional state. I would say I’m crazy, but I feel crazy, and they say crazy people never know they are. So I don’t know what I am, but I’m telling you – I’m not a perfect person. But everyone says that. Cathy is mad at me, so you all must excuse my bitchy-ness. It’s just that she is at least real, and cares, and knows a lot more than my parents do about like. And I have to say I love her. And she might be the most important person to me. I think she is an amazing person, and she’s my hero. She’s living, which is more than a lot of people can say. love