The Pen & Paper

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.

3/30/14

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.

Leave a Reply

SCROLL TO TOP