sitting here.

I just… want to feel something- anything- other than this. I’ve been like this for months now. And it feels like it’s only getting worse- that I’m slowly sinking. I can’t bring myself to do anything, it’s nearly impossible to find joy in anything. I’ve isolated myself from everyone. I don’t have any energy to talk, no energy to come up with good lies or excuses when people on the outside ask about things. So I just kinda sit here. And I sit. And I rot. It’s so hard to bring myself to care, but when I do I just feel embarrassed, and ashamed. Knowing how everyone would look at me. Knowing how I’ve failed, how I’ve still not picked myself up and started my life yet. So I just sit. And I rot. Time is so slow until it’s not, and it’s all too much. It’s all… too much. I know in some way or another it’s all my fault anyway, right? So why am I complaining? That’s all I hear everywhere I turn. I have no money anymore. She stole it all while she asked me to walk the dog one day. Haven’t confronted her about it- no point. Just another fight, and all there is in this house is tension it seems. She’s clearly guilty though the way she treats me almost too well, you know? It’s not real. Doesn’t feel real, anyway. None of it does. I feel like I’m in a never ending fog. So much time just eludes me, I remember nothing. Not even to eat or drink or anything. I just sit. And sit. And rot.

There’s no reason to do anything else, after all, is there? No one really cares either way. And all my problems and just my existence in itself is too burdensome to be dealt with. Kinda like a bug problem you can’t get out of the house. I feel about as significant as an insect most of the time as it is anyway. I do try, you know, I really do. I just can’t pull myself out. Eating is a chore, cleaning my room is a no-go, even showering proves too difficult to bring myself to do. In the sense I just can’t bring myself to get up and do it. Nothing matters anyway, in the end. It’s hard to see the “good” in that statement, although I guess I do get the sentiment. I guess in some sense I am giving up. I have no real hopes or dreams that I can look to achieving, nothing that makes me get up every day. I’m not sure I ever did? Or if I just told myself I did. I don’t know anymore.

I keep telling myself I’ll do a little thing or 2 to pick myself back up and into the swing of things a little, to live a little better, but I know it won’t ever happen. I’m too lazy, procrastinate too much, don’t care enough about anything anymore. All I care about is the little world I’ve crafted in my head, and if I’m not there I’m just very depressed. I’ve reverted back to what I did as a child. I used to do that all the time – honestly I never stopped. It’s better than this world anyway. This world just proves to suck in nearly every way imaginable. I used to think that perhaps, I could help make it better, but I don’t think I can. Because I think I’m part of the problem. I feel like I AM a problem in that sense. Just another problem of the world to get rid of. I’d love to get lost in the world of dreams. It seems I’m stuck everywhere else but there, it keeps kicking me out back to the real world. To the real me.

And I hate it.

It hurts. It’s been hurting for years and years, I think I’ve just avoided it as I kinda continue to do. Confronting it means being even more miserable than I already am. Sometimes I think I’m nothing but rot wrapped up in flesh- that everything I touch becomes broken, like me.

So I sit here. And I listen as my parents fight day in and day out, listen as they try to feed me all sorts of lies. Sit as she goes on about not wanting to be a bad mom and how terrible she feels and then steals the last of the money I had to where I have nothing now – all for pills and things that I thought surely she quit years ago, that she said she stopped for her kids’ sake. Sit as we have next to nothing to eat, sit as they make me feel like shit for being low energy and not hanging out very often- despite things that they must think I don’t know about, but I do. So I sit. And I sit. And I rot. And I sink further into my mind, because it’s either that or I end it all. I don’t have it in me to fight anymore, to care, to endure. I’m ashamed of myself. Yet it’s so distant along with everything else I feel.

I’m sorry.