I cannot conjure my thoughts into text. I cannot put what I wish to shout into paragraphs. If you had to translate my thoughts, you’d go away defeated with blank pages. My thoughts are everywhere; my thoughts are everything. I want to try harder. I want to give up. I want to stop hurting, but I want to hurt more, to feel pain, because I’m sadistic, because I yearn to just feel, even if it’ll kill me.
Don’t worry, oh do I feel things alright. Those things, those things that keep me up until five in the morning, overthinking, pondering til the cows come home, considering all implications, all possibilities to how X may pan out. I overthink. I overworry. I… I don’t know what else to write.
This isn’t a cry for help. This isn’t a rally for attention at my door, but, fuck. Fuck, sometimes I feel so worthless in this world.
I’ll be better in a few hours. I’ll be better in the morning. I’ll be better after having something more to drink. I’ll be better when I preoccupy the mind, push all that worries me to the side.
I’m a fucking hard person to love. I’m sorry for that. I want to change that. I’m trying. Just please, give me time.
I had and fought depression like a lion in 2012 and 2013. I. Do. Not. Want. It. Back.
I can’t. There’s so much to do, so many opportunities. I have university in September – assuming I get accepted. There’s my heart to explore, someone to adore, assuming things go okay. There’s a family to make amends with. There’s a job to leave and a new life to set free. There’s so much to do.