In the afternoon I cried thinking of God's capacity for love, wondering if some part of me might be capable of feeling this toward myself, knowing I am far from this. In the evening : self-hatred in a crowded plaza ; in a shop, mostly empty, but cramped to overflowing with cheap products. Fear of punishment for minor errors — not even errors : fear of nothing. Tuna mayo onigiri : one of the tastiest things I've ever had. It was a good day.

Forgot my Pigeon's card under my pillow. Cried twice in the airport over it. On the plane, guilty-conscienced ; my brain scans for evidence to support the conclusion that I cannot be loved. I need to get out of my head. In Detroit and Lansing I saw snow fall, a first for me, and I was stunned and happy.

Before Liturgy I found a cut on my throat, a scabbed horizontal line, then bleeding. I have no idea why. "We're okay, we're okay," on the walk there. Remnants of the first snow : plenty in the morning, almost totally gone by sunset. A confession met with love.

After sleep, relief. There’s nothing left to confess. At night I sobbed harder than I had in a long time, gasping for air over and over. After talking with Pigeon my spirits lifted and I felt better, better than I had in morning. My girlfriend saw me and said let me look at your face and she touched my face. She said Close your eyes. And she said, they’re so puffy, were you crying ? And I told her yes and she said poor baby. And we smiled. I nursed a headache all night. It was a good day.

I saw my first snowflake : it was really tiny and missing a limb. On contact with the window it melted almost immediately. This just about knocked my socks off and I instinctually shouted. I sat and waited and watched them fall for thirty minutes. I choked on my food at night the worst I have since I was 5 and choked on mini pancakes. I couldn’t breathe for a while. Coughing over and over and over and still not being able to breathe was really scary and afterwards I got so panicked that I couldn’t even screen what I was saying. I muttered : Am I dying ? without thinking at all. It took a while for my mind to get back to normal. For a while I felt almost like I was distracted but there was no content to my distractions. It was a really strange state of mind for me.

I spat out the first bite of the breakfast I made. I finished the rest but felt nauseous after, and I still feel a little nauseous now as I write this. In the evening I had the fear that not washing my hands after doing my laundry would kill me : some fatal bacteria from invisible shit getting into a cut. And I could taste a little trace of the laundry detergent on my hand as I ate my dinner after and I felt worried that this too would kill me. Logically I know that I will be okay, but the remote possibilities still terrified me. Nonetheless I didn't wash my hands excessively, which made me more scared now, but will help me be less afraid eventually. My hands are sore and dry. Writing about this made me feel dirty for no reason. I talked about OCD with Pigeon and it helped me to feel less embarrassed.

Unbearable selfloathing. This is what I was thinking : I’m such a coward ; I hate myself. I was not tired, so when I tried to sleep it off I couldn’t sleep : my head just swirled. Bed-ridden and guilt-ridden. I read the ‑ridden part comes from horseriding ; guilt did bestride me and I was demeaned. Thoughts of hurting myself but repulsed by the image. Disgust at the knife on the counter left out. When you say you love me forever, is it like God’s endless love ? I asked. I think it’s the same, she said. And I said what I hated myself for and it was okay and I was loved. It’s good you were brave, she said, and Thank you for helping Ivy St. George. This morning, the first time I’d prayed to him, I felt desparate, awful. I no longer think I’m a coward tonight. Tonight I feel better. Thank you St. George and the girl with twenty nine teeth.