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I come here as a kind of last resort. That sanctuary I once had. Now I'm drifting in and out of depressions. I can barely lift my fingers and I'm not sure that I am good at anything. I cry too often. I don't have many people in my life. I don't look at my mother. She doesn't know how many times I've cried in these past weeks. She doesn't see how desperate I've been. I'm detached, yet desperately wanting to attach to something solid, that can bring me out of my uneasy body.