I used to think I would never be jealous. Now I am. It's a nasty feeling. It feels like a leech stuck in my neck, greedily sucking out all happiness. But it's not a leech – it's a part of me. I'm disgusted with myself. I don't want to be possessive, but I am. I don't want to get furious, but I do. I feel like a rabid animal, sulfureous, about to spit fire. I'm afraid I might hurt him – not with fire, but with words. I might want to hurt him first, before I get hurt myself. Breaking up suddenly sounds like a good thing. Why should I wait for him to discard me? I'm making myself sick with paranoia. I feel like a loser who has lost her mind. I used to think jealousy is a symptom of a low self-esteem. Only weak people have it. Is love making me weak? There is this expression »to have a weakness for somebody« – is that what it means? I'm ashamed of being jealous. But I can't help it. I cried all night.
