“I can’t even imagine how you did it,” Chavala says. “That’s… that’s torturous!”

Igo to school on Monday weighed down by a very large brick called, “I am a terrible person because I ate treif.”

I am a very good robot, and I do everything I’m supposed to, down to cracking jokes when appropriate, but my heart is absent. I’m in a torture chamber of guilt and trying to figure out how to escape.

When I think that nothing can get worse, I suddenly remember about the blue pizza. I can’t get it out of my mind. It’s like two people are stabbing me at the same time. No, it’s worse. And suddenly I’m done. I have to get out of this state of beyond torture, even if it means admitting I have a mental illness.

But this is easier said than done. I should go over to my parents and be like, “Tatty, Mommy, can you please book me an appointment with a psychiatrist so I can figure out what’s wrong with me?”

My mother will say I need more vitamins, and my father will tell me to go to sleep earlier. Or maybe he’ll just say to “snap out of it.”

How do I go about this? I feel like I found the gate to redemption but it’s locked.

Still, I feel a lot better than I did before. I’m not crazy, there are other girls who have experienced something similar, and there is a way out. I just have to figure out what it is.