The kind of bone-deep exhausted that all the sleep in the world won’t fix.
I have no-one who knows me who cares about me – nobody I could call with a [redacted] in my hand and say “I’m tired and hurting and scared, I’ve fucked everything up and I’m useless and I wanna die but I don’t, please come help me”, and they would. Nobody that would just come over, and take the [redacted] out my hand, and hug me, tell me they love me and I matter to them and they don’t want me to die. I don’t even know if people like that exist for anyone. I’m guessing probably not; either that or I’m just super-unlucky.
I’ve felt crushingly alone my whole damn life no matter how many friends I’ve made and lost, with the exception of one friend back in high school, and I guess to some extent my counsellor back in college. My bio family has never given a crap about me beyond what I do for them. What’s the point, if nobody gives a fuck about you? How/why are you supposed to care about yourself if no-one else does?! Music, movies, books and games were how I got this far: I would lose myself in songs and stories where people had family and friends who actually loved and cared for each other, and try and draw comfort from that.
But now I can’t write, which has always been the only thing I’ve ever had to hold onto when things got really bad, and I am so tired. My writing was the best comfort I had against the loneliness, and not being able to access that has sucked all the light and hope from the world worse than the worst thing I’ve experienced to date. I literally didn’t know I could feel this depressed before I lost it. I’m too damn listless to even make the effort to kill myself.
Literally the only reason I’m still here, writing this, is because I have some tiny, ridiculous, utterly blind faith that I might be able to write again someday. So long as I’m still breathing, I might be able to get it back somehow. And I owe it enough, I love it enough, to try, even if I don’t love myself.
It isn’t much, and life still hurts like fuck, but for this one thing, if I can just get it back somehow, I’ll bear the pain of being here til I die of old age, because my writing matters that damn much to me.
So yeah. Keeping plodding on, one day, one hour, one minute at a time. Hopefully things might get better. Guess I’ll just have to wait and see what happens. Breathing in, and breathing out.