Gone Girl

I need to go grocery shopping. But I’m so tired. I need to do touristy things. But I’m so tired. I need to study the language. But I’m so tired. I need to focus at work. But I’m so tired. 

I am going to record myself sleeping tonight to see if I still have weird breathing. And I know that it will be comforting to hear that I do. Because that will explain why I always feel so horrible. Can you imagine? Once everything is fixed, I’ll actually wake up feeling well-rested, energetic, and happy?! I won’t crash throughout the day, I won’t need naps, and maybe, by some miracle, my brain fog, that I’ve tried to ignore for a decade, will go away. Could this be it? I doubt it, because I’ve thought a million different things would make it go away. But maybe…. What if? What if this is the reason I can never concentrate? Why when I was a child, all the teachers wrote on my report card, “doesn’t pay attention in class.”

I will cry if this solves my problems. I will cry with the biggest swell of relief and happiness I’ve ever had.

Honestly, how can I live like this? I’m crying right now. I just don’t know how I do it. I am really strong. Because the amount of pain and suffering I go through every single day would make any of my co-workers collapse and scream for mercy.

How do I do it? I think it’s years of practice. I’m in so much pain. When will this end? Why is this happening to me? I don’t deserve to suffer so much. Why does God hate me so endlessly all throughout my life? He gave me a horrible but beautiful, happy, and painful childhood, where I was somehow, unbelievably happy.

But then after that, all the sorrow and pain caught up to me, and he gave up on me. He just gave up on me. He decided I did something terrible in my past life and now I have to pay for it. I must have been a murderer. Because the intensity of this mental torture is brutal. It’s unimaginable. I’m not a real human being. These are the thoughts that make me thing maybe I should just jump off a mountain already. Or wade right into North Korea. What’s the point? I am absolutely miserable. This isn’t living. Why am I suffering like this? What have I done? How can one person endure so much pain?

I can’t breathe. Literally and figuratively. I’m already dead. I’ve been writing about my torture for so long now. It’s become a habit. A strange, deathly, painstaking habit. I can’t escape. And this is the only moment where I feel like I can really be myself. I can’t tell people how I’m really doing. I can’t answer “how are you?” with “dead.” I just can’t. This is me. Right here. This is who I really am. All dead inside and staring out of blank, empty eyes. I’m nothing inside. I am a hollow shell of air and smoke. And depression. It invaded my insides and ate everything. It sits in there, controlling the sticks and mechanisms and machinery to make me move and breathe and eat. But it’s not real. I left long ago. I am alone and empty, with the smoke manipulating my every move.

I’m gone. And I can’t be found. Because I’ve tried to find me so many times before. But I don’t know where I went. There is no trace of me. Just gone.

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