inexplicably shittyI am okay.
I am okay.
I am okay.
I am okay.
I am okay.
How long do I have to keep on telling myself this before I will believe it?
Most of my journal is unhappy. I am so very sorry to subject everyone to long-winded entries on my seemingly never-ending woes. But I have to write it. I have to. I have no one here to tell these things to, no hug in which to find comfort, no connection I trust. Even if I did, my words would be stilted, mixed up, jumbled, childish. I am almost always thinking about more than one thing and the words for all thoughts run along in my head at a pace my mouth cannot match. It only makes sense when I write it. You all are unfortunate victims of a 104 WPM that far outstrips my handwriting.
I would love to share happy stories with you. I'm so afraid that the longer I feel like this, the more likely even this tenuous conection to humanity will leave me. I don't want you to go. I'm so afraid that if I die, it will be days before anyone notices. I'm so horribly lonely. I have been so lonely. Sometimes I feel like I'm never going to be able to see anyone ever again.
My boredom is a physical hurt. My loneliness is a physical hurt. Anguish is crushing and I'm so far gone right now I can't take it down, it keeps on coming back. I think I have it under my thumb and then it comes back. I run away. I attempt to laugh it off. It means nothing. People have it worse. I could be worse off. I'm so Goth. I'm so Emo. Hah. Hah. I feel like I don't deserve the air I breathe, but that's just funny! So Emo! Hah! Hah! I can't breathe, I'm shaking, I'm retching. I'm not happy. I'm not well. I'm ridiculous.
My mother reminded me that when I say "I'm trying," I usually fail. I'd forgotten. I made trying my goal. I forgot that there was something beyond that.
I am okay.
I am okay.
I am okay.
I am okay.
