I know what it is.  I know what's going on.  I'm fooling myself, that's what.  Each time I think that somehow, someday, I'll be able to unburden myself of the things in the basement, and the things on my plate and in my head, I start to hope that my escape plan will work.  Someday, Logan and I will be on our own, with no more abuse.  And then I remember: I'm not allowed to go downstairs and work on things.  I'm not even allowed to go outside and take care of my plants, and my plants are dying.  I want to reassign them to good homes, find somewhere where they can stay alive, but I'm not allowed to talk to friends.  I want to.

And more than anything, I am not allowed to believe in reality.  I have no idea what's real anymore.  For all I know, I am a horrible person who makes all the bad things in the world happen.  That's what the voices say, anyway.

I am sorry.

There is solace in solitude.  There is solace in silence.

I am so sorry for everything.

I love you, my beautiful Earth, my world.