There are moments when I almost feel connected to other human beings, right up until the moment is over and I go right back to feeling like me, and then it’s worse because there was a break in feeling alone, and then I have to start it up again.

Why can’t it be enough to have two people who love me, a job that isn’t terrible, good health, a nice house? The world says that should be enough. It’s supposed to be enough. Why can I only focus on what’s wrong everywhere, inside and out? What’s wrong with my fucking brain? Why is it always pitted against me?

How can you spend every day fearing the end and longing for it at the same time

I’ll probably never get published and even if I did, what would it be for? Who am I writing for? A world full of people who don’t matter to me in the slightest? And already I’m imagining how awful it could be if I had to face bad reviews or somehow got slightly famous and all the skeletons came out of my closet like always happens when there’s a spotlight on you. I’d die.

I should stick to online anonymity like I always have and just write for myself, like I always have. Fuck the world, they don’t matter.

Why can’t I just stop hurting? Why can’t I accept and let go? Why can’t I be happy? Why is everything wrong? Why does everything have to change and never in good ways?