Dear Diary,
I remember when the sun would shine brightly for me. I would bathe in the sky’s warm, radiant embrace; unaware of my blissful ignorance. When I came home every day, I learned something new. I was happy, my parents were happy. I didn’t know what the real world was like. I was completely satisfied. Until I wasn’t. That feeling’s gone.
Everything I did had to be perfect. Every piece of my life had to be perfect. Any part of me that wasn’t perfect needed to be washed away. But over time, all of my efforts stopped being good enough. Nothing I am able to do is perfect enough. No matter how hard I try, it doesn’t match up. My own expectations are a supermassive black hole; swallowing me whole. And you know what the hardest thing about it is? The person I disappoint the most is myself. I’m sure I even disappoint you too, diary.
My simple joy has been missing for who knows how long. I’m scared to try anything new; what if I do it wrong? All I can see is the thunderous downpour I put onto myself. Mercilessly drenching my body, and destroying me from within. I don’t know what changed. Everyone else is the same. I’m the only one who’s changed.
But now the raindrops of self-doubt aren’t raindrops – They’re bullets, piercing my soul. Leaving mental scars and the taste of blood as I bite my fingers until they’re numb. Infecting my mind with an all-consuming void. I wish I could go numb and not care anymore. I wish I didn’t care so much about pointless things. At least you’re here for me, diary. At least you listen.
Dear Diary,
I wish I knew how to change. I wish when I messed up I didn’t feel so much pain. I wish I could be okay. And I wish I had a little more self-confidence. I wake up every morning feeling dread. I wake up every morning with too many thoughts in my head. Sometimes, when I think too long, I just want to give up entirely; lay in my bed all day, and become a vacant entity.
For now, the anxiety of failure is stronger than the apathy. But I worry, will this be eternally? When my tortured mind has had enough; what will become of me? I procrastinate at home because looking at my piles of schoolwork makes me too stressed. It might be time to admit that I need help. I can’t seem to get that through my dumb, thick skull.
I know you’re no therapist, diary. I know you can’t really respond to me, or even care. Talking to you is still comforting, though. Some day, I feel like you’re the only one I can talk to. I am an ice sculpture, and my life’s a blazing desert sun. My motivation to do anything is slowly melting away. I hope I’ll be happier some future day. But for now; I don’t have much hope.