I write

Because nobody can give the high price you require for your confidence. Nobody is rich enough to purchase it. Nobody has the honour, the intellect, the power you demand in your adviser. There is not a shoulder in England on which you would rest your hand for support, far less a bosom which you would permit to pillow your head. Of course you must live alone.
SHIRLEY, Charlotte Bronte, 380

I write in the pink notebook I bought in London at WH Smith. In London I wrote notes in here for class. In America I fill the rest of the empty pages with quotes from the books I read and thoughts I have that I have to write in here first (in my inscrutable handwriting) before typing on the computer. Because, if I try writing these thoughts on the computer first, my repressed self won't let it come out. I suppose the relative privacy of a notebook shelters my tortured unconscious. I sound like a therapist.

I have been thinking about seeing a therapist. But I cannot imagine finding someone to talk to that would be good enough for me -- meaning someone I can depend on, who will want me to talk to them, who has my best interest at heart. I imagine (rather -- fear) that even therapists have their own agendas. Would, for instance, not think me clever enough or interesting enough to deal with me and will subtly express this. This paranoia stems from my parents, both of whom were not a good support for me and still are not, who have such problems of their own that they are incapable of dealing with mine, who I cannot explain my feelings to because they are either not sympathetic (primarily my mother) or not -- well -- knowledgeable enough about life (dad). I often blame others who are not able to be as dependable and interested as I would like them to be, but I know that this is not something realistic. People can only give as much they can. My parents should have been more reliable; I can get away with blaming them a little. And I do.