i’m not entirely certain what is wrong with me. i could spend all day writing out my flaws on paper — there are many — but that’s not what’s wrong with me. or if it is, it’s only a small portion. a bit. a glimpse. a flicker. something isn’t right; therefore, something is wrong. it’s unnerving knowledge, and yet i am both considering it and ignoring it.
feeling this way is …unbalanced? i’m going through the motions and even that isn’t really worth the effort right now. i feel my signature spring cold coming on and don’t even really care except for the fact that any extended or severe sickness will incapacitate me, leave me mobile, alone & at home and thinking.
my mind is the most dangerous thing in my world.
that’s not meant to be conceit, it’s pure fact. nobody can fuck me up quite like i can. mental masturbation that leaves scars, basically. open, suppurating wounds that fester and ooze. everything that is wrong with me on the outside doesn’t even compare with what goes on in my head. this, too, is fact.
most days, i merely wish i weren’t aware that something is off, that i’m not doin’ so hot, that the thread i’m hanging on by is steadily u n r a v e l i n g. they say ignorance is bliss, and they sure as hell ain’t lying.
i’m lost and afraid of what i will find.
self-conscious, self-doubting, self-reliance, self-serving, self-contempt, self-defeating… i’m sick of my self.
i’m tired.
