The hallway spins in front of me, like a washing machine of white walls and blue doors with cute little halloween decorations on them. The clap of my feet against the floor seems steady enough but I feel that there is no way I am walking a straight line. I shove my key into our door and fall into our dirty apartment. I make a beeline to my room in order to avoid an OCD attack. In my head, there are the things that I've yet to do. "This week has been...bad," I offer as an excuse to my peers who have relied on me for something I couldn't find the will to do...yet. I think about what I have overcome and what there is ahead of me. The promise of disappointment stares me in the face. It is the disappointment of those I love most and the disappointment of myself. The self-loathing has already been nagging at my immune system to fail. I subconsciously long for anything to use as a legitimate excuse for skipping out on the insanity here. In a world where people turn more and more to drugs, alcohol and psychologists. I am the one who feels that I am not screwed up enough to deserve an escape.

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