I feel like my life just got darker. After the realization I had yesterday and today about my feelings and about how helpless and hopeless I am, it is hard to keep going with my head up. I’m so fed up with my own insecurity that I’m angry everytime I close my eyes and think about it. I can’t face challenges, and what’s the point of being alive and being unable to deal with challenges as well?
I know, I know, this is a dangerous way. If I keep thinking about what my life is and what it should be it’s like one step towards suicide. My mind keeps saying that I need somebody to love, and I keep saying that I need to be loved by somebody. Maybe this is what I am, just a continuous fight between what I want and what I need. In the end, each side pulls me to a different direction, and it’s more like one of them is pulling me in the opposite direction that the other is trying to pull me as well. This way I keep stuck in the middle, without knowing what to do.
The lack of vocabulary is awful – even though I study English at college, I’m still struggling with sentences and sometimes I just don’t know how to arrange my thoughts in a language other than my mother tongue, which is not English – , and I guess you can tell how frustrated I feel for not knowing how to express my feelings properly. I’m starting to get desperate because I lost my old job and now I can’t find anything related to my area. Fuck, I don’t even know what my area is, I don’t know what I’m doing to my own life. Soon my money is gonna end, I keep spending it with a married guy who doesn’t give a fuck about me (hell, he doesn’t even know about my feelings) just because seeing him smiling to me makes my day worth the pain. But this is sick, I can’t live this way. He’s not going to leave his wife for me, another stupid guy.
So why am I still alive? Maybe because I consider suicide a challenge, and I’m not good with challenges. I just don’t know what do anymore so I keep writing. Writing awful things that my friends don’t know and don’t want to know. I keep writing through the night, I keep writing while I can, while I still have money to pay the bills, while I still have this little and tiny string of hope inside me. One day I’ll get tired of this and then I’ll probably be able to put an end on it. I still don’t know when.