I wonder if I’m not happy because I don’t know how. I don’t remember the last time i was really, truly happy, but I can clearly remember the times I’ve spent crying in bed at 2 am.
I tend to break apart when I’m alone, in the dark, like my weakness is a shameful secret. No matter what I’m doing or where I’m going, I carry darkness with me like an old friend. I can’t let go.
Sometimes I wonder why I’ve been hurt so many times, and sometimes I think I know. I’m scared of being alone. Yet somehow, the times I’ve felt the most alone are the times I’ve spent with friends, having fun. It scares me in that moment, how life feels so perfect right then, because I know it’ll all end, and soon I’ll be alone again. It always ends.
I remember being eight years old and writing in my diary at school: “I wish I could start life over. I would do it right this time.” I’ve always felt a deep sense of anguish inside of me: is it who I am, or who I grew to be?
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