“Someday,” says the living part of me, “someday, I want to write a book.” The living part of me is very small right now. Nearly invisible. It’s battering around in my chest, banging fists, stomping feet, screaming for mercy. Yet it’s muted. I can only feel living-Annie. Her words are slammed into the ground by the gravity of depression. She’s hurting. That much I can tell. Every time she thinks about that theoretical book or the someday being a therapist, the pain increases. I can’t tell if she thrashes in hopes to free herself from the pain or to end the pain by bringing an end to herself. Lately I’ve favored the latter interpretation. Reality? Who knows. I don’t believe she can ever be free from the pain She must learn to coexist. She must learn to occupy space with the fire. But how? At this stage I feel I am more pain than life.