I am going to start from the beginning. Not the complete beginning but from the beginning of my actual pen and paper writing. I should have started writing earlier in life but unfortunately I didn’t. It’s nothing very talent-ridden. I’m just a girl who has lows, and when I have those lows I pick up a pen and paper and let the darkest words flow out. During most days I wouldn’t identify or relate to the person I am when I am writing these because of how dark my mind becomes. But I have the urge to share them verbatim. Even if nobody ever reads them it feels good to take them out. So I’ll begin.
I’ve never been eloquent with writing, or speaking for that matter. Here I am at 30, no identity. I really don’t know if I am nice or evil anymore. Most of my actions display the latter. Maybe I have a selfish soul.
I posses no talent of any kind. None. No passion for any given thing, craft, special activity.
There is nothing I even long for or crave. Nothing healthy anyway. I constantly need reassurance, how shameful.
My insides are empty and I long to long for something to close the gaping hole and fill the void. But I long for nothing.
What do I lack? Sense? I’m acting like a 17 year old who can’t find her place in the world.
When I look in the mirror I see this person who couldn’t describe herself to anyone because she doesn’t know herself and hasn’t applied herself or attention to any given thing.
I’m empty. I cannot self soothe. I’m a pathetic infant.
Most days I feel like death would be great. I don’t know why it’s condemned. Shouldn’t it be my choice to leave misery behind if possible?
Nobody can save me. I don’t know how to save myself.
I live in constant fear and anxiety. I have no inner peace and frankly I feel it’s unattainable.
Why am I crying? It can’t be because I’m alone, I make it that way. Maybe it’s because emotionally I haven’t changed ever.
I want to end it or do drugs, because really there’s no point to the suffering. It’s constant, these demons, they are winning.
I’m empty. And I have nothing to look forward to. No hope to cling to. No chance for a brighter or better tomorrow. Just will be 50 and alone. I’ll hear whispers of how I never became anything, made children or could keep a significant other because I’m bad and should b full of shame.
And I am full of shame. I feel it all like knives in my soul. My shame and self hate bleed out and disguise themselves as worry and panic.
When I look in the mirror I’m ashamed, disgusted, embarrassed and reminded of how little one human can be. How pitiful.