Today, in this bed…

I wish somebody would destroy me because I’ve reached a point in my life where I feel too powerless to try to do that myself again. I’m so tired, and I absolutely hate complaining about my tiredness. I hate feeling weak. I hate feeling like I’m a victim of a horrible past; a victim of terrible, unfortunate circumstances as if that would give me permission to complain about myself and my tiredness — it doesn’t. My pelvic pain, the past, my depression — nothing matters. I never feel like my pain is valid. Nothing I feel really is. I want to cry, but I’m not worthy of tears.

Crying makes me feel guilty. Everything does.

I just want to lie down and fade to nothing…

I’m still trying to keep myself busy chatting with my few friends, translating my heartfelt, completely nonsensical poetry. I can find brief moments of pleasure, but they’re all so ephemeral. I smile for a second, and then it just fades away… And I’m surrounded by my sadness again, and then I’m alone… I know I’m sick in the head, but I also know this “sickness” I have is a chronic illness… It won’t go away. Never. I’m always alone with my ghost, the ghost of myself… 

I wish life would let me disappear



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