All the bickering, tears and nervous tension have become such a stress and strain
that I fall into my bed at night crying and thanking my lucky stars that I have half an hour to myself.
I'm doing fine, except I've got no appetite. I keep hearing: “Goodness, you look awful!”
I must admit they're doing their best to keep me in condition: they're plying me with dextrose, cod-liver oil, brewer's yeast and calcium.
My nerves often get the better of me, especially on Sundays; that's when I really feel miserable.
The atmosphere is stifling, sluggish, leaden. Outside, you don't hear a single bird,
and a deathly, oppressive silence hangs over the house and clings to me as if it were going to drag me into the deepest regions of the underworld.
At times like these, Father, Mother and Margot don't matter to me in the least.
I wander from room to room, climb up and down the stairs and feel like a songbird whose wings have been ripped off
and who keeps hurling itself against the bars of its dark cage.
“Let me out, where there's fresh air and laughter!” a voice within me cries.
I don't even bother to reply anymore, but lie down on the divan.
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