Mentally I'm about fifteen instead of twenty-one.
Physically I'm a (?) number. Too thin, hips too wide, no breasts to matter. My face is usually in a knot. I'm already showing lines in my forehead and at the corners of my mouth - from continually frowning. I'm always discontented. One evening in about every two or three weeks is perfect, I feel as though I'm in heaven. Then my life is drab, cheerless, and monotonous again. It must be my fault. I'm usually in a morbid frame of mind. That's why I hate myself.
Mr. Pember says it is not true that "we are what we are" but that "we are what we would become." Well - maybe he's right but how in this complicated world do we know what we "would become"?