Hey. I know I haven’t written for a while again. I just checked. It’s been exactly one month since my last entry. Things were busy. Well, not really. I just didn’t know what to say. It still hasn’t stopped, that feeling that what I have to say doesn’t really matter and I’m just sort of talking out my ass. I know I shouldn’t think like that. But it doesn’t stop. Sometimes it goes away, but it gets replaced by this voice that tells me I should be better than how I am. Then I get this subtle determination to be better, and then I lose it and feel sorry for myself again. It’s almost like a cycle.
I don’t know what I’m doing here. Or anywhere for that matter. Recently my mom asked me what I want in life. It’s funny because I’ve been asking myself that same question for a while and I’ve never had an answer. I’m just sort of doing it. I don’t have a reason why.
Sometimes I’d like to be dead. Really. And that’s dead in the sense of being nothing, like a full embrace of not feeling or experiencing anything. And then I remember if that were the case, then there’s no point in doing it now. Just experience the life I have. Die later. But still, I want that kind of silence. Not out of self pity or hatred or suffering some physical situation. But just out of this feeling that I don’t have a reason. I see other people going around and they’re all outgoing and nice and they look like they have reason to be walking around and trying their hardest but I don’t. I feel like they’ve convinced themselves that trying their damn hardest in this life is worthwhile. But I don’t see it as worthwhile. And I sicken myself when I hear myself say that.
I sicken myself in alot of ways, actually. Sometimes, after coming out of the shower, I’ll just look in the mirror and impulsively whisper to myself “What the fuck are you doing, you shit? You’re still fat. You’re still not talented at anything. You’re too introverted. You’re never going to get a job to support yourself. You’ll never get closer to Her. You’ll never amount to anything in life and you don’t even have a reason or any determination, so why the fuck are you still even trying?”
Then I sneer. My face reflexively twists into a look of contempt and disappointment and fear. Contempt for who I am now, disappointment in what I can’t do, and fear of this other part of me, who will always hate me no matter what I achieve. I’m always going to be a shitbag. I’m always going to be a quiet asshole. I’m always going to be introverted, and I’ll hate myself for it until I die.
I’m sorry. You’re not here to read this. You don’t need to hear me feel sorry for myself. What are you here for then? What am I here for then? Actually, don’t ask me that, because I don’t have a fucking clue. Do you have an answer? An answer would be nice. An answer would be fucking fantastic. Because I would sure as hell like one.
I’m sorry. Now I’m being confrontational. You have your own problems. Your own fears. Your own anxieties. Who am I to ask you for help, when you have such a burden on your own? Who am I to be feeling sorry for myself? I should just get over it, right?
Easier said than done.
I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel bad. That’s the last thing I want. I don’t want to be a burden on anyone. I want others to be happy because… of something. I don’t know. If it takes something out of me to make others happy, then so be it. I don’t need to be happy.
No. That’s a lie. That’s a lie I’ve been telling myself all this time. But I can’t stop thinking it. I want some happiness. But I don’t want it at the expense of others. If ever anyone else is unhappy because I pursued my own happiness, I could never live with the guilt. So I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be the happiness you need, if you came here to get any. Maybe in a future entry. But today I don’t have any to give or share. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I don’t expect your forgiveness. But I’m still sorry anyways.
Take care of yourself.