I will always be this way; the bad wolf beckoning. I give in because I have to survive this way. It doesn’t seem like a choice. (All the shame comes rushing in: I do have choices.)

I feel so sick letting it run me over yet I don’t believe I have the power to stop it. (Guilt abounds: why am I continually weak, letting the bad wolf poison the good?)

And to that end, I see no point in living because I cannot live like this. It’s a miserable space to be—in my head. (I’m endlessly sorry, to everyone I’ve ever loved.)