Reaching out is the hardest thing to do. I feel so numb. I am drowning in sorrow. Tears are currently rolling down my face. I am surrounded by many who love me, so why do I feel so alone? I have everything going for me. I have family, and I have friends, though there is no single person on this Earth with whom I can share every thought that crosses my mind. The secrets are continuing to pile on in my brain. I know too much. I am on the verge of exploding. I am a ticking time bomb. One moment I want to unleash my wrath unto the world. Another moment I want to end the pain for myself. I am very rarely happy, and even when I am convincing myself I am glad, I still feel that tinge of sadness creeping in. Or maybe it is worry. I put shit in my head that does not need to be there. I create scenarios that have never even happened or even have any chance at happening at all, for that matter. Fuck feelings. I hate feeling like a little bitch, but a little bitch I am. Negative thinking surprisingly has a positive effect on me. When I remind myself how awful and nasty I am, I do better, and I am less selfish. So fuck me. Fuck me for being the little bitch I am. I need to do fucking better for myself. I need to be better for my fucking self. I fucking suck. Ducks fuck. Cucks suck. Me a shmuck.

Haha, I feel better. I do not know why the verbal abuse towards myself feels necessary, but for now, it is essential, at least until I learn how to love myself—a seemingly unattainable task. Loving myself sounds so putrid. How could I ever? The thought of actually loving myself makes me want to barf. Or maybe my problem is loving myself too much. I am so damn selfish. I am absorbed in my miserableness. It is kind of pathetic, but pathetic is what I am. I need sleep. I need happiness. I need love. The anger, the hurt, and the vile thoughts seem to be winning.

I wish I knew what was wrong with me. I wish I knew how to fix myself. Today was not one of my better days. Today was a day full of dread and self-loathing. Why? I cannot come up with an answer, not even for myself. I know I am weak-minded, but that is only because I know my life is a life not worth living. I mean, I understand how lucky I am to know many people who love me. I also know that I am surrounded by many people who care about my well-being, yet I cannot help but feel alone. I get to know others, and I have learned that I am not alone in feeling this way, but this newfound information has not changed the fact that I am alone. Every single day I wish and hope to become a person who truly loves life and is sincerely happy in all aspects of life. I want to be her. I want to be him. I want to be anyone else but myself. Maybe then, I would have a chance at happiness. Perhaps I was just born morose, destined to live a life of melancholy. I wish I knew a mad scientist willing to operate on me by rewiring my brain to eternal positivity and joyousness. I constantly hear that the key to happiness is simply altering one’s negative thinking to positive thinking. Not as simple as it sounds. Not to me. To me, my “negative thinking” is more like realistic thinking, yet I guess I could do better in the “down-talking” department. I need help. I do not fully understand how to love myself. I also do not fully understand how I ever could. I hate me, and I should. I need to change drastically, and I must. The me that has been existing must cease to exist, or else the me who wants to live will never have a chance at happiness.

I can feel the anger boiling within me. For the past couple of days, I have been careless, apathetic even. Some steam has been released, but not in a healthy way. These little outbursts were something I thought I had put behind me, but surprise! The outbursts, they are back, and they are unwelcome. Are they not? I try to act as so, but there is a sense of feeling like I am in my element, releasing what is necessary, despite the casualties—usually, the innocent and those that care for me the most. I know I am not supposed to lash out in anger, giving in to my demons. I know that when I give into my anger, I am only losing control of myself, and I am handing over all of my power to the ones that I would least want to have. I realize now, for the moment, that my anger is a product of my pathetic pride. With a mixture of anger and pride, things tend to become warped. Is it not insane how we justify our acts of terribleness to save face? What is face worth when the anger takes control? Every day I think I am more knowledgeable and that I harvest all of the possible answers to this impossible life within—the All-Knowing is what they should call me, I think, and then reality awakens me with a mighty slap in the face, reminding me that I am just as ignorant as the day before. I will never know all of the answers to living an entirely happy life. I just know that I am growing, ever so slightly, with each passing day. Be humble and be kind. Anger is the devil in disguise, which is probably why the anger feels so great, at least for the moment.

Being happy is more complicated than one would think. Day in and day out, I confront the world with a smile. I swallow my problems and regurgitate rainbows and unicorns. I tend to those around me, doing my best to be the giggliest and most positive person I can be. Talking about it makes me want to sever my tongue and wrap a noose around my neck, but the actual act of caring and being compassionate is honestly the most rewarding feeling in the world. Maybe I only like to help others because it makes me feel good about myself. Perhaps if I continue to act as the big-hearted being, I can become the big-hearted being. It does make me happy when I can put a smile on another person’s face, so maybe I am a decent person. But, would a decent person feel the need to justify that they are a decent person? Stepping out of myself to help the next person seemed to fill the void for a while, but my brain seems to be wired to eternal despondency. Are true happiness and the state of nirvana indisputably attainable? I hope they are, but with my brain repeatedly polluting my thoughts with terrorizing visuals of reality, it becomes more challenging to be hopeful with each passing day. It has been a struggle within myself ever since I realized that life truly has no meaning. Life is merely a series of events that one experiences to make memories. We are here to exist and to reproduce. Everything is pointless once your mind starts going down that rabbit-hole vortex. Each person is so minuscule compared to the entire galaxy. So, what makes me significant? One day I hope to believe the positive things that others say about me, but for now, I will just admire [from afar] the excellency that shines in everyone else.

Cutting was an escape for me— well, the best kind of escape that I could find at the time. I was only a preteen when I picked up cutting. I was definitely the n00b of all n00bs; my weapon of choice— my mother’s craft scissors. As time passed, and I realized that the minuscule slices had made little impact on my wrists, I leveled up to women’s leg-hair razors. I taught my devious-self how to disassemble the razors, to acquire the razor blades. Once, I even became creative and used a glass shard broken from a vase of flowers an ex-boyfriend had gifted to me. No, I am not glorifying these moments, but there is no harm in being satirical towards myself. Right? Any-who, in the moments of inflicting self-harm, it just felt necessary at the time. I needed to feel physical pain to mask the internal pain that conflicted with me for so many years. I was completely and utterly alone with no one to lean on. I could relate to no one. I was alone, and the cause? I chose the life of a recluse by detaching myself from those who genuinely care. I allowed my insecurities to flood my brain with nonsense lies about how unworthy I am of the love and compassion others can provide. Everyone may not always be there, but someone can be if given the opportunity to do so. So, please, with all of your strength, reach out to someone and/or reach out to me. You do not have to feel alone anymore, and most importantly, you do not have to cut anymore. My last cut was three years ago. You can do it too. You are worthy, and I care.