It strange to think that the worst parts of my life are the only time when my life had meaning. It felt so meaningless at the time, so hopeless and unlivable. But when I look back at it now, it’s with a sense of accomplishment, like “I did that”. Once upon a time I really did. I can barely believe it now. How? How, when I am so weak? How could I live like that, every day? Each day was another hell, another challenge, just another day of being worn down, of resisting my own nature.
I want to damn myself now, damn myself for resisting. We were so close. So very, very close. And now it feels a lifetime away. Why? Why ever bother?
I miss being alone sometimes. I miss that hatred I used to wake up with. Now I wake up emotionless. There is no despair, but there is no happiness either. There’s nothing. Nothing is all you have. It’s all you know. I forgot how to feel. I don’t really know what love is. I don’t really know what it’s like to need someone that much, not anymore. I forgot how. I don’t need anything. Sitting here is enough, even when it at times causes frustration. I’m free outside and trapped in here, but it’s what I know. I accept what I know now and don’t fight it, and I hate myself for that.
The truth is, I lost my real fight too. I think I just do it now because I remember it being important somehow. But now I can’t remember why. I used to not give up, but maybe that was a lie too. Maybe all I have ever done was give up.
Maybe everything was over before it ever started.