or a “touchy neurotic spinster”, etc. The pot calling the kettle black! Yours, Anne
MONDAY EVENING, NOVEMBER 8, 1943
Dearest Kitty, If you were to read all my letters in one sitting, you'd be struck by the fact that they were written in a variety of moods.
It annoys me to be so dependent on the moods here in the Annex, but I'm not the only one: we're all subject to them.
If I'm engrossed in a book, I have to rearrange my thoughts before I can mingle with other people,
because otherwise they might think I was strange.
As you can see, I'm currently in the middle of a depression.
I couldn't really tell you what set it off, but I think it stems from my cowardice, which confronts me at every turn.
This evening, when Bep was still here, the doorbell rang long and loud.
I instantly turned white, my stomach churned, and my heart beat wildly -- and all because I was afraid.
At night in bed I see myself alone in a dungeon, without Father and Mother.
Or I'm roaming the streets, or the Annex is on fire, or they come in the middle of the night to take us away and I crawl under my bed in desperation.
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