I couldn't sleep last night, not at all. So I wrote a letter to J, telling him I would have to cut him out of my life, that I was too afraid of ruining his happiness to remain a part of it. Why do I always have to do this? Why do I try to do the right thing, when I can't know what the right thing is? It's all just me trying to appear noble, it isn't what I want at all. But what I want doesn't have any place here either.

P has, I think, broken up with S. He sent me an e-mail last night saying he was going to and this morning S is really depressed. But I don't feel I can talk to him until I know for certain, and he doesn't feel able to tell. So I'm just trying to be generally comforting, though I doubt I'm much good at it. It's made harder by the fact that I can't really seem anyone to blame but myself. If I can't move this blog I should just stop using it and delete it all, but I can't.

When I woke up this morning I felt better, after writing the letter. As if, now I'd exorcised those feelings and that way of thinking I could just go back to normal. I thought I should just ignore the resolution I'd made. But perhaps I was right last night. I don't think I'll ever be able to help J again, and the person I am at the moment is not someone anybody would want as a friend.