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Dear reader,

I am injured right now. I’m confused and I have no sense of direction. I feel broken and if not broken, then I feel as if I am breaking. There exists a cavernous space in my heart. Or rather, my heart is a void. I feel like I can’t fill it because it isn’t there to be filled. I am at a loss. I admit defeat. Dear reader, thank you for listening to me.

Dear family,

I finally gave in to your crushing expectations. It’s funny how when you take out the “y” in “your,” it becomes “our.” Once I stop asking “why,” desires suddenly become unanimous. Once I stop questioning your motives, I start to think like you.

Perhaps—and I doubt this ever passed the mind of any of you guys—I don’t want to be like you. I don’t. I don’t care if you all become successful. I don’t care if you all forget me. I don’t care.

I lied.

Truth is, I do care. I don’t want to care because right now, I’m in pain. I don’t want to feel like this. I’m tired of being so miserable! I’m tired of not being able to find my own happiness. I am so sick and tired of not being able to honestly smile and be satisfied with what I have.

I know I have a lot. I know a lot of what I have come from you and I know that without my own family, I am nothing. But you know what? Maybe I want to be nothing. Maybe just living like this is too much for me.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die, but I’m dying on the inside! Why...

Why can’t you see what I’m going through? Why can’t you understand how much you hurt me? Why, why, why?

I’m tired, so tired, so incredibly tired.

How did I ever deal with this before?

I know this feeling. I know this feeling because I used to live like this every day. I know the taste of these tears, but it’s been so long. Thank you, I suppose, for not letting me forget the reason behind my hopelessness. Thank you for reminding me how I used to cry myself to sleep every night. Thank you for reminding me that I’ll never account for anything. I’ll never be anything.

I’m sorry for being a disappointment.

I’m sorry for being me.

I’m sorry I’m not like the rest of you. I’m sorry for not being able to live like you do, act like you do, succeed like you do! I’m sorry for not being you.

Once again, I’m sorry for being me.

And I’m sorry that I can’t add to the pride of our family.

I’m sorry that when you think of me, all you can talk about are my faults and flaws. I’m sorry I have no merits.

I’m sorry for not being as smart as you want me to.

I’m sorry for not being as responsible as you think I should be.

I’m sorry for not having the same friends.

I’m sorry for not sharing the same hobbies.

I’m sorry for not being helpful to you.

I’m sorry I’m not a tool.

If you consider me a tool, I’m sorry for being outdated and old and useless and absolutely worthless.

I don’t hate you.

I don’t love you.

I don’t know what I think of you because, in my current state, when I try to think about you, I can only think about how lowly you think of me.

I deserve it.

I deserve all this pain.

This pain means nothing.

Or perhaps it does.

Perhaps it means I’m weak.

I’m not strong. I never was. It’s no wonder that I can’t handle this. I always relied on the strength of others. I suppose I should build my own muscles and do things by myself.

But, don’t you see? I thought I could do things by myself. I thought I already developed the strength to lift myself up. I thought I was free from my dark side. She’s back. I don’t like her.

I don’t like her. She kills me on the inside. She covers my eyes and hinders my balance. She shows me the horrible truth and hides all the perks if there even are any. She whispers to me at night telling me how rotten I was and how much more rotten I’ve become. I thought I could ignore her.

I thought I already killed her.

She’s alive again. She’s smarter now, wiser now, too much now. She is me and I am her. We are one in body but several in spirit. Within me rages a constant war of bad and worse.




Dear reader,

I read something really cool today! I wanted to share it with you and what better time to do that than now?

*ahem*

The wish that a naive person sometimes has: “I would like to die and watch the others crying over me,” is what such a writer constantly experiences: he dies (or he does not live) and continually cries over himself.