Every day, actually. It’s almost as if music and noise are the only things left. And thoughts, so many thoughts. This, that, whatever. I wish I could do somethinng. All I can do is think. Wait. Eat healthy, exercise maybe. Try to make a change. One hour later I will still be, well, the way I always am. I can’t really do anything. I’m just waiting. The next time I see a therapist. A stranger. Someone I trust more than the people close to me for some reason. I read a short story about selective mutism. Something about anxiety making you unable to speak to the people you are familiar to. I still speak to my family. Not much. Most of the time I’m just in my bed, I get up to eat maybe three times a day. It doesn’t make sense to be like this. How do I make a difference? Outside of my family, I don’t even exist anymore. Maybe some people talk about me. What would they even say. I told everyone I was depressed. Then. I don’t know. I’ve barely talked to anyone outside my family for over a month. I hate it. I don’t even want to be with my family but I don’t have a choice. I’m just stuck. No money. No job. No education. No friends. No happy memories at the moment. If I do have them, I usually deny them anyway. It just works that way. I don’t regret anything. I don’t think that I could have done anything differently. Why should I? I’m here now. I don’t want to be here, but I am, and I can’t leave. I made myself breakfast today, at about 2:40 pm. I don’t know why I should try. I’ve already tried. It didn’t work out. I’m not sure about anything. I know what I should do. Stop watching porn, right? But then I lie in my bed. Hours go by. Days. Weeks. Months. Nothing changes. Autumn becomes winter, winter becomes spring. Soon summer will come by again. It won’t change a thing. I’ll still be here. Stuck. Not that I can’t move. I just built a maze inside my head trying to protect myself. From what? All I did was hurt myself. Is voluntary isolation any different from self mutilation? Maybe a little bit. I do both, they don’t hurt much, but they leave marks that stay for a very long time. I’ve already figured out everything that went wrong. It’s very clear to me. I remember everything. Well, not everything. Sure, I remember eating breakfast while my parents were stressing while I was a kid. I remember hugging my cat and my stuffed animals when I wanted comfort when I was a kid. I remember how scared I’ve always been of my parents. I remember the day I learned how to ride a bike. I remember the swimming lessons I had when I was maybe four or five years old. I remember the piano classes I had. The friends I had. The fights I had. I remember the food I ate. How my dad always made tea at night, how I always asked for microwaved milk from my mom when I went to bed. I remember almost everything, and very clearly. It’s almost weird how much I remember, and vividly. From when I was slightly younger than four until now, I remember almost everything. Not the exact dates, not how I felt, but images, the way something felt. If I felt safe or not. I don’t think it would be better if I forgot all that stuff. They are already in chronological order, I could write all of the events down in a book, and it would be extremely long. I remember visiting my grandma before she died of cancer. She was always happy. She always had a smile on her face. But I didn’t care much about her. I don’t care much about anyone, not even myself. Why do I even have these crystal clear images and memories from my past when I can’t even pass more than three classes in high school? I know why, it’s because I don’t remember words. I remember concepts, feelings, images, sounds. But not words. I’m really struggling to find my identity. I can’t seem to have a clear image of myself. When I look in the mirror I don’t recognize the person I see. When I look at my family members, I sometimes don’t recognize them either. Why? My therapist gave me the diagnosis, something like “maladaptive syndrome” or whatever. Something about struggling to adapt to new surroundings, resulting in anxiety, nervousness, and stress. According to him, I’m codependent of my family. I hate my family. How could I be codependent off of something that I want to get the fuck away from? It’s true that I wouldn’t survive without my family, so maybe he’s right. He said I’m closing myself into my familiar circle. I don’t even talk to these people. I communicate with strangers on the internet. It’s probably not healthy. Is it normal? If’s probably not normal. What is even normal. What does normal even mean. Boring? I think being normal means being boring. I wanted to be normal. I really wanted to be cool, because I was very nerdy, and I was really good at everything so everyone hated me for that. Everyone was jealous of me, so they hated me, then I started hating myself and thinking, what if I was normal? What if I wasn’t this good at everything? Wouldn’t that make me happy? I started feeling that way when I was maybe seven years old? Ten years later, I feel worse and now I’m not good at anything. Sure, I have a high IQ, but does it really matter? I failed every subject and dropped out of high school, but at least I have a high IQ man! Go me! I suck at everything, but at least my IQ is high! I’m not stupid, I just suck! Should I feel happy about it, celebrate maybe? MAKE MYSELF A CAKE BECAUSE I HAVE GOOD GENETICS. I can’t stand feeling like this. I’m so powerless. Every day, I’m reminded “MAN PLANS. GOD LAUGHS.” Why do I have to be so helpless, so powerless, so useless, so fucking terrible at everything. I can’t make any friends because I’m not interested, and I have trust issues. I can’t learn anything because I’m not interested. I can’t do anything because at the end of the day, no matter what I do, nothing ever changes for the better. Nothing. Nothing at all. If I do my best, everyone hates me. Everyone always hates me, no matter what I do. Maybe I just wasn’t meant to live. I’m not good at it. I don’t want to die, but outside of my family(that I hate), would anyone even care? It’s so fucking stupid, I’m stupid and I’m stuck. Can’t escape from the mess that I CREATED ENTIRELY BY MYSELF. No, I didn’t want it to be like this, I wanted to be, well normal, but I’m just not cut out for being even close to normal. I’ve literally never had any interest in anything at all except for entertainment maybe. And, woohoo, I watch TV, I’m such a normal and funny guy. I’ve been on anti psychotic medication for a week and it has only made me feel worse. Maybe the medication doesn’t work at all? The only thing it does is make me hungry. But I’ll keep taking them anyway, because I’m supposed to, I guess. “Close to having an intense depressive episode”, my ass. I almost killed myself, no shit sherlock. Why do I even need a therapist? Maybe if I was more honest it would work better. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s hard to be honest when honesty is always answered with negativity, worry, whatever the fuck man. Why does everyone need to worry when someone is sad? When you see a homeless person on the streets you don’t give a single fuck, but I say, “oh I don’t feel great” and the world is ending, fuck off. It all feels so synthetic. Like everyone is just a fabricated machine made to perfectly fit in the system with just enough care to provide for themselves and little enough to not give a fuck about people they don’t know. I’m sick of this shit. It’s all bullshit. Identity politics, actually fucking politics in general, it just causes division. No one wants to fucking cooperate with anyone because their ego is too big, and it’s like that everywhere. Everyone is prejudiced and no one wants to acknowledge it. Maybe I’m just talking out of my ass, I don’t know. I’m just tired of literally everything I see everywhere. Corporations steal my data, governments do nothing about it, there are violent protests on the streets, civil war in Somalia and Ethiopia, China is commiting so many crimes against human rights, and nobody stops them because nobody cares about the women that are forcibly sterilized, the people who are captured and tortured for spreading information, the people who die for wanting to preserve their own fucking culture. I know so many things, and they are all terrible, and there probably are things that I can do about it, but if I just start preaching on the street people will think I’m crazy. Man, I want to be a journalist. That’s what I want to be if I manage to get out of this fucking shithole I created for myself. I really should get a life.