I used to enjoy things. A helluva lot more than I do these days. I don’t enjoy a lot of things anymore.

I used to love to write. I used to love to design. I used to get my stomach in a knot for the prospect of meeting a cute guy.

I don’t like anything anymore. Sometimes I wonder if this is the best life can bring me and I know it isn’t. I know that a big part of why it is as it is, is because of me. I don’t commit to myself. I can commit to a whole other person but I can’t commit to myself and my own needs.

I am falling apart inside.

Some days I can struggle through the mundane and the adequate and try to see some sort of light at the end of a metaphorical tunnel, but most days I’m gasping for air because the air is to thin or I’m drowning because the tunnel is flooding in.

I always had a tendency to be sad or feel lonely. I remember being a dramatic child. But it was never this bleak. Never this hopeless. Never this hard.

Dad just had to die. I just had to give up on ever being sane. I just had to throw my body under the train that is called selfhatred. I hate it. Most of the time. I always imagine myself doing something about it. I envision it. I pack bags with clothes, sweatpants, gymshoes, large tshirts. But lets face it. I can barely walk in a normal pace anymore.

So I selfwallow. Maybe I haven’t hit rock bottom. Maybe I need it to get worse before I can handle it getting better. But most of the time, I just want to sleep. I just never want to get out of bed again. Is that too much to ask for?