Nothing feels good anymore. I can’t turn away from the negative. I feel it in every room of my house, and I can’t do much about it. At least, that’s what everyone is saying.

I can’t wait to leave in the summer for art camp. Fighting has become my family’s favorite pastime, and when they aren’t fighting with each other, they’re fighting with me. It’s hard for me not to retreat into my room and watch my Daria DVD for the rest of my life (or until season six ends, either one). I tell myself that if I try to take care of myself now, I will be much happier when things begin to turn around for me and everyone else in this house.

My eyes are cold and fragile, breathing is shallow, and I haven’t taken my hair out of its cocoon (a bun) since ballet last Monday. No time (or will). It’s been fun having it up there; one less problem to fix.

The last thing I remember thinking before passing out on my bed was how I felt surrounded by the black holes of sadness, anger, disdain, and fear. They were in the large room next to mine, and in the rooms down the hall. By thinking about them, I had allowed them into my room, too. I think I closed my eyes before they could get me. ♦