Dear Diary. I’m getting quite depressed. I need to remind myself of the things worth living for, like food. The taste of food. Probably sport too, if there was ever any on TV, I would try to get into it. I guess most of all I want friends and a girlfriend and love. Weird I’m not thinking sex is something I want at the moment.

Life is a nightmare. I don’t think anyone can help me. I can only help myself. And that’s what worries me. I haven’t helped myself before; I’ve always had Adam or mom. I’ve just never tried helping myself. Don’t panic. At the office tomorrow, don’t panic. I panicked in Bishop Vesey, all the time. I have to think of the best way to deal with situations.

I’m not a man, all these phrases and words I’ve learned from school make me sound like I know what I’m talking about but I don’t. All the time, I’m acting. I don’t express my real feelings. I probably never have. That’s who I am, deep inside. Who am I? What can the outer me become? All this time I’ve been failing conversations because I saw what I think people want to hear. It’s like I’m pretending to be someone else. It’s an act. It’s why I don’t feel like I belong when I walk down a crowded street. The real me is locked away deep inside and I pretend to be normal on the outside. But it comes across as weird to people because mine isn’t a good enough of an act. I want to scream and roar at the moon.