Again with the letters. I think I write to you sometimes because I don´t know what to do or worse yet because I am bored or moreover have things to do that I don´t want to do. Right now, I should go on the treadmill. He´s out of the house and aside from the gardeners I have quiet and isolation. My heart is beating loudly and strangely, and I have so much pain in my body. I took twelve Aspirins because the coated here only comes in 100mg. It´s still not enough.

I wonder how much I´ll change before we head to New York. How much more I´ll have to suffer through in attempts to win a losing battle. My almost-beautiful nails are so dirty right now, and I´m shaking a little bit. Just a little. So little I can type this without becoming too familiar with the displaced backspace key.

I wish I could tell you how sorry I am and mean it. I´m not sorry for being sick anymore. I don´t quite yet feel I´ve been ¨entitled¨to it, but I tread in calm waters of acceptance with it. I´ve bonded with it. Spent time with it. Embraced it. And I guess that´s dangerous, but so is investing time and

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I´m writing  you another letter. I sometimes think I should write letters to you daily and put them in that notebook I impulse-bought. Do you remember? new york/our sleepless city. I might write in there. I´m embarrassed to have never used it. I´m embarrassed I buy things and then am terrified to use them. I´m embarrassed I think I´ll ruin them. So much embarrassment and shame and today especially.

I´m going home early. It´s official. I´ve ripped my skin here and bled here and bruised myself here. I´ve purged and I´ve torn hair out and I´ve shouted and done other very emotional things that even I cannot justify.

My fingernails are so long now I can feel them butt the keys. I never thought I would feel this. I never thought this existed, and it makes me think what other sensations exist that I haven´t experienced yet. I apologize for my next sentence, but I am not sorry since it is genuine: I have experienced so

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important to no one but me: this letter was written prior to last.

Am I childish to you? You met me when I was irrational and immature, and it´s so hard to paste over photographs of who I was. I still am unchanged to people whose years I trail on with because I don´t understand how to develop between them and me. I´m immature yet, yes, though differently: hateful, disillusioned, selfish. But even in my dishonesty, even in all the secrets I´ve begun to amass, I´m more genuine. I have less tact. I show less promise of use because I keep my feet on the ground and my hands to my sides. No offer to help. No longer a need to.

I´m here right now. I´m not well. Whoever it is talked to me this morning. I´m gaining weight. I´m scared something pivotal will happen this time, and I am so frightened I touch the floor before I step out onto it.

I can´t wait to go home now. (What is home? It´s among the words I hate the most.) I can´t wait to eat what I will eat and not be scared of being ostracized and judged. I´ll leave if I need air. I´ll see my pet circus bear. And, even though we won´t be able to call each other, I´ll be likelier to talk to you.

I miss you.