Today began long before it should have. I woke up with that feeling that always returns, that feeling of my breath being unbearably heavy in my chest. I begin to question everything. I become saturated in the desire to disappear. What seemed clear yesterday reveals itself as a lie. Who I thought I could be is so far out of reach and I want to tear my skin off, trade in my heart and my mind, transform into a clean slate. The weight is unbearable. The weight of my body and my thoughts. The same phrase loops over and over in my mind, the thought I have had since I was a child….I can’t do this anymore.
I have been wondering lately if my writing is really my truth, or if the actual truth is that I use words as a cloak to shield myself from my own hollowness. I am without substance, without desire. How many times can I write about the same boring things before it becomes clear that I am empty inside. Why do I want to be more than I am? Why do I think I need to be smart, sensitive, deep thinking? I am not those things. I am a fat, middle-aged woman, who has spent her life striving to feel alive, and failing. I have no idea what’s true, who I am; my mind won’t let me see those things. It fails me and I fail everyone around me, and I stumble, and each time I fall, the wounds cut with more rage and never truly heal. I am so tired.
This is what my mind does to me. I give it names; depression, self loathing, compulsivity, disenchantment. Its name doesn’t matter. A name doesn’t make it go away. A name doesn’t keep it from ripping any spark of happiness from my heart. A name doesn’t make it stop telling me I am worthless. A name is hollow, just like me.
I want to change, but how can I change when I don’t have the energy to breathe. I don’t recognize myself. Perhaps that is because I have never seen myself. I believe I am the fool, the joke, the sad excuse tucked away in the corner. I am also the enemy of that person. I abuse her, belittle her, tell her that every inch of her is defective, that her life was never meant to be. She believes me. I am not a nice person.
I don’t seek sympathy. I don’t require reassurance. I know the drill. This is how my mind works. This is how it fucks with me over and over again.