It feels like I will never be an adult because my emotions are like the mood of a teenager. I can’t function like everyone else because I never know if I’m going to be ok that day. I can’t ensure that I’ll perform well because I never know if I’ll actually care that day.
Who cares about the future? There’s no need to worry because it doesn’t actually matter.
Who cares about memories? They’ll leave me anyway every time I have a breakdown
Who cares about grades, clean bedsheets or football? I suppose I normally do because it’s coming from my mind, but it’s all futile half of the time.
I can’t wrap my head around how I have been able to make it to 22 when there seems to be such a dark and heavy second me that I carry around. I keep wondering if there’s something wrong with me. If somehow a few wires in my head weren’t connected properly because I can’t explain how this is possible.
But you know I’m fine. I can function. I mostly have good days. But then why is it still here? I don’t want people to tell me it’s normal because it’s not. It shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t be like this. It’s not someone I want to be. When did I choose to feel like life is not worth living? When did I choose to be anxious and break down so many times? I don’t want to be this person because I don’t know how to love her. I don’t want people to tell me this is a part of me and it also makes me special. Makes me able to help people because I understand. I don’t care. It’s not making it any better. It’s not going to take away my pain. It’s not fair. Suffering isn’t fair to anyone who is suffering.
I can’t take it and I don’t want to see pain.
It’s not a true wish. Humans have this sense to live. But the me then couldn’t and the me now still can’t deal with the pain. This darkness doesn’t feel like it’s just some pain. It’s all-encompassing, like volcanic ash falling from the sky; it can bury an entire town.
How many more times will I feel like I’m unable to breathe again?