Lost touch. It's hard to voice the deep sadness inside. It's hard to put into words. It effects every part of my life, colors it; it's always down there somewhere. I know I'm in pain, but it's so hard to verbalize it. I do better expressing myself other ways. Learned to make earrings and bracelets. They keep me occupied as I'm not up for any mental olympics right now. "Major Depression." That's what Anita called it on my disability form.

I hate having to record this. Maybe why I've avoided writing. I haven't written in a year. Am at 160 pounds. Holding with no help from "fast".

Life is too sad. I feel I'll be facing death somewhere soon. Feels like it will come to the point where I'll have to decide if it's worth the living. If I decide to go, I'm not cutting the wrists or od'ing with pills. I want something fast and sure. A rifle in the mouth. That's what I see if it comes to it.

Though John sees suicide as an irrational act, I see it as a decision a person is free to make if they decide it ain't worth it. I can't say these things to John. He freaks. Pulls this power trip, threatens to call an ambulance and have me put in the hospital.

Things are a little much right now. Sherah has her problems: weight gain, fear of pregnancy, aids, boys that will hurt and use you, girls who'll stab in the back, school, drugs, drive-by shootings, alcohol . . . and I worry right along with her.

John and I's relationship is disintegrating.

The car's dead.

Money's tight.

I can't have orgasms because of the Prozac.