Having a goal and finding that you’re somewhat good at something really helps. Although I don’t want to get better, I can’t help it. I haven’t felt this neutral in years, in winter, with this rainy, dark, weather. I don’t know how it is happening but I think I am getting better. I expected to be disappointed again. It really sucks saying this and many people, as much as they’ll understand will be offended by this. I don’t want to get better, if I stop being…who I was, I won’t be happy either. I expected so much worse. Seriously reconsidering how much of a idiotic masochist I am. I hate wanting to kill myself every second, but I hate laughing and joking and feeling light, not understanding who I was a month or so ago just as much. I loved that I was going half crazy, I loved being on edge I loved absorbing other people’s thoughts in my head I loved drawing when I was losing control of my thoughts. I loved going to public places knowing that I strangled myself for 2 hours straight the prior night, I loved, just as much as I hated feeling angry and punching hitting myself with the handle of a badminton bat myself and leaving bruises, seeing it shiny in the shower, I loved counting calories. I don’t remember, just as much as I do. I enjoy doing things without any difficulties, just as much as I hate it. I will probably get worse anyways, its not like I’m being treated.
I’m just faking all this anyways. I’m a normal person, just like everyone else. There wasn’t ever anything wrong with me to begin with. I’m just really, really idiotic. I need to have my ego deflated.
It gets different every year, I remember last year, when I was completely in it, in the room half rotting, flipping through my old notebook, and how I wrote in full detail in tiny fonts all across the page, where and how I can kill myself in the building I was stuck in. I remember last year, the plan I had nearly engraved into the crevices of my brain, and how one day of refurnishing at the store fucked up my entire life. I remember just months ago, flipping through last year’s journal, a piece of paper slipped out with deformed letters making up of words that were incomprehensible for me this year. I forget about it all. And the drawings of fantasies of harming others. I don’t know how I can go back to feeling this neutral, it shouldn’t happen. Just weeks ago I was crying for hours in a parking lot and going back to hurting myself. I don’t deserve any clear air with this mindset. My physical body and my skills should be donated to someone else. I don’t want to get better, but I don’t have a say. I wanted to die knowing that I’m a terrible person with a mind filled with tar. I should have. If only October last year had let me. I was counting days. I was ready. What I’m not ready for is this, is smiling, is being able to imagine again, is being able to talk again, is being able to live again. I don’t want any of this. I’m sorry.