but i wasn't sure. i wasn't sure at all.

who am i?

i used to be able to answer that; i used to know who i was now and who i'd be in five years and who i'd be when i died. but now - now, i'm not sure. i feel that there has been a steady decline of myself, of who i am and what i'm about. everything that i stand for, everything that i hope for, all of my strengths, weaknesses, everything - all exponentionally getting worse. and i'm losing myself.

i'm losing myself in stress, and shyness, and fat, and sex. i'm losing myself in memories and hauntings and trauma, and i'm losing myself in where i want to go versus where i'll be. i'm losing myself in everything that i'm not.

i'm the alter-ego of an alter-ego of a young poet who killed herself. i'm fake, i'm unreal - and on multiple levels. to recover from these levels will take such a long, long, long time; when one level is overcome, i will be faced with entirely new difficulties, and entirely new world perceptions. i need to be esther greenwood. i need to be victoria lucus. i need to be sylvia plath. i need to be courtney.

the problem is that i am stuck at elly higginbottom.