This is a stream of consciousness piece that is typical of how my brain operates, on a daily basis:
I am a burden. I don’t think I am, I know that I am. I am told that I am no such thing, but behavior dictates otherwise. I am sorry. I am scared. Perpetually scared of the possibility of dropping dead from my illness or the possibility of dropping dead from embarrassment. I am embarrassed by most things, most days. I hate everything about myself, about my life. That’s a lie; I have good people in my life who deserve a better daughter, sister, friend.
I am tired. I am twenty-eight years old and I am sick and I am so tired. Tired of trying and tired of being in constant pain. I can’t breathe. I literally can’t breathe, so I cry to stifle the struggle, but here’s the ugly truth: I eat. My ugly truth is I eat to keep myself from thinking about things that are always bad, unrelentingly bad. And I eat to distract myself from doing things that will force me to face reality and this becomes my reality and now I am stuck. I am ugly, inside and out.
I know that I am not meeting my potential. I’m a smart girl. I’m not a genius, but I am capable. When I do try, things remain awful and at best, my life is a stable ship in a sea of shit. When I try, things never work out, so I’ve given up. Given up so much, given up hope for happiness for myself and the people I love. I just know that I don’t want to make it harder for them to survive. I am a burden to others and to myself. I struggle inside this mind, every day, fighting memories of when I perceived things to be good, comparing them to the present, but in retrospect, I was too stupid to know any better. Now I am too broken to escape.
I do not want this. I do not want this reality or this life. I have tried to find my own way out, but now I have no hope of even being rescued. That’s it. This is all there is for me. Doomed to live this life, the life that I see that’s empty in the eyes of the people I care about. What would I do to rescue them, too? Anything. I want to give them the world. People say you can be anything, but what I can’t be is normal and normal seems to be the only way to “be anything”, these days.
Why am I never happy? I know it’s me. It must be me. I hate my brain. Congratulated for things that I don’t believe are achievements because they don’t really matter, but they do matter. Not to my happiness, but in order to thrive and that’s something that I cannot rectify in my mind, so it fucks me up. It ruins me. I am never happy, but I want to be. I try. I pretend. I pretend most days. Play pretend and shift reality, stay away from the true reality to keep myself safe, but to ruin my true state.
I don’t know what to do, anymore. It’s my fault, but I am at a loss. No one cares about your shit, in this reality. No one cares about how damaged you are and how, eventually, you would like to be a writer. Everybody wants to be a writer. But they know better how to play the game and that is why they win. That is why you fail. Play the game, bitch. Play the game. Fuck honesty and truth and raw beauty and learn to play the game. If you want your reality to resemble your fantasy, you will play the game. Even if it breaks your heart, even if it kills you. And it will. The ultimate loss.