I don’t have good dreams anymore. My life feels like a considerably better version of Thirteen. I am tired most of the time. I have stopped thinking about former friends, about the girl I once thought I was in love with, about the midday panic attacks, about the boy that I dreamt about and wrote letters to. I don’t know how I feel anymore. Every time someone tells me that I’m getting better, I fear that they are wrong. I’m afraid that I’m slowly destroying my mind and myself. Maybe I’m overreacting. ♦