For a long time, now, I've been struggling (no, not really. That implies I didn't want it. I didn't fight against it because I knew it was true) against what could only be described as having a bad day, all the time. But sometimes it was better. I'd be able to laugh and smile and whatever else without pretending. And throughout all of it, there was a reason behind the pain to begin with. Dad was being a prick, Mom was being a whore, something or other was causing me to want to jump off a bridge. And I was given a lucky break and a chance to get away from it all.
But now I find myself sinking back into my same old patterns. I wake up wishing I was with Ben, and I'm not. I go to school hoping that things will be different, that I would be different. But I'm not. I'm just a burnt out, hollow imitation of everything I used to be.
I haven't voluntarily written music or poetry or short stories for a while. And at first I thought it was because my mind was betraying me. You can't write stories about happiness when you're not happy, and you can't write very rational stories that revolve around a drama queen like yourself if you aren't the least bit motivated.
Or that's what I kept telling myself. I wasn't motivated, I didn't have time, whatever. Excuses were there and I used them.
And now I have time and plenty of motivation, and I still can't do anything. Finals are coming up and I can't bring myself to study. Things are fine now at home and I can't bring myself to be happy. Everything is good. Except for me.
Used to be that when I got to be like that, I'd just pick myself back up, brush myself off and try again. I'd find my friends, and they'd be the ones to cheer me up. I'd find my husband-to-be, and he'd make my day.
But sometimes I look at these people that used to be so important to me, and I'd realise something. And the more I thought about it, the more I became convinced it was true: They were made for this world, and I was not. That makes me different from them. I have less of a coping ability with shit like this, or so I thought. But according to everyone else I'm doing damn fine. I just don't believe it.
And I thought I could pretend. Pretend happiness, pretend recovery, pretend anything to cover up the truth. But I can't. And I'm tired of it all. Waiting for the winds to change, waiting on the world to turn... I'm over it.
The fire that used to drive me, it's burnt me out. And there's nothing left but a massive emptiness and a disappointment of myself and the circumstances around me.
It would make it so much easier if I could convince myself I wanted to die.
But I don't even care about that anymore.
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[ℓiחŋie]&[вeиηy]
[27.08.07]to[∞]
This one hasn't got a personality.
This one has MULTIPLE personalities...