I don’t think it’s supposed to hurt to be what you are. If it does, you must be forcing something.
Work is shit; my promotion is more of an irritant than anything else, making me sick to my stomach and rattling my nerves until I leave my shift so exhausted that I don’t have enough energy to even have a life. Not that I have the time or anything, or that there’s much to be had.
Everything has gone wrong, it seems. The good that’s happened has been bludgeoned by bad, until it has all become a sickening, worthless pulp. It doesn’t matter that it happened now. I hurt. It’s as though there is this hole in my chest, wide and gaping. It’s actually like a stabbing pain when I think about it, like having something torn out and taken. And everything’s suicide and endings and not having to think about anything anymore. I was stupid to think anyone would do something for me. Their help is nothing but fumblings; there is no certainty to it, no strength of will in their grip. Faltering and sweaty and too fucking uncertain and destined to fail every damn time because they don’t understand it. This isn’t a phase; I won’t grow out of it. I’ve wanted to die since I can remember. I’ve wanted to cut myself out of this mess since the beginning. And now I’m 20 and stupider and I can’t believe I’ve suffered myself this long. I hate being myself, I hate who I am. I am a failure and I’m not fit to be here and staying around is nothing but a mistake and more proof of my own idiocy.
Every day I live is another mark etched into a wall; a scratch that amplifies my own incompetence.