The Black Book

I don’t usually post things from my private journal online… but I need to have it somewhere.

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I don’t know what I learned this week. I don’t care to do a weekly review right now. I want to cry. I don’t want to be strong. I’m tired of being strong.

I wish I were pretty, like my mom was at my age. I wish I weren’t a monster.

I don’t know what to do with my life, or what I want to be, or where I want to go. I don’t know what’s going on inside my head most of the time, I just know it hurts me. I don’t think anyone would understand if I tried to explain how I’m feeling, yet I’m still going to keep writing.

I’m tired of smiling when I’m close to tears just so people will think they made me feel better, when in reality I just want them to shut up and stop trying to give me advice.

I’ve got horrible anxiety. I always think of the worst conclusions.

Time hasn’t healed any of these wounds. They keep getting torn open anyway.

I’m broken.

I don’t believe there will be a time I can stop crying. I don’t believe I’ll ever be loved. Love always breaks my heart. I don’t feel I’m good enough for anyone, not even my family and friends.

Everyone ends up hurting me, at some point. I say it’s okay, that I’m used to it… I’m not.

I only find happiness in my dreams anymore, and all I have are nightmares.

The world isn’t safe. Nowhere is safe.

Those days you feel like you just can’t win? That’s what my life feels like.

I sit there and ask others, “what’s wrong?” and I care, I do. But I wish when others asked me that, they would at least pay attention while I was telling them what’s up.

I can’t accept compliments—I don’t believe them. But I take every insult to heart.

How could anyone ever care for the likes of me?

When asked, “Are you okay?” I may say yes, but the real answer is no. It’s always no.

I don’t feel like anyone gets how messed up it is in my head. I’m a total mess inside.

I want to start cutting again. At least physical pain is easier to deal with. I don’t want to hear that cuts will take away my beauty—I’m not beautiful. I don’t want compliments. I don’t deserve them.

I go into bouts where I feel no one loves me, and that my friends talk about me behind my back.

I wish I could feel strong right now but I can’t. It’s funny how easy it is to tell others to be strong when you feel like the weakest person alive.

I’m depressed, suicidal, sometimes numb. Living is like punishment. Asking people what fun things they’re doing without me is self-punishment, and I tell myself they’re so much happier without me.

People put me down so much before, why wouldn’t it be true?

I cry at night a lot, when others are asleep, and I choke on the sobs and can’t breathe through the pain.

I’m just not good enough.

Depression is a monster inside you. I feel like that’s all I am now. It’s hard to kill it. What if I have to kill myself for it to die? I really wouldn’t mind. I think about not looking both ways before crossing anymore.

I hate me.

I’m fat and ugly. Even my dad said so.

Sometimes my thoughts scare me, but these dark thoughts have become “normal.”

I’m insecure about myself. I can love others but not myself. I’m depressed. I’m a disappointment.

Society tells me to keep my problems to myself. I just can’t take it all being inside anymore.

I hate being ignored even though I don’t feel like I deserve to be noticed.

No one really knows what I’m going through. And how can I truly explain it?

Would anyone even remember me tomorrow if I died today? Would anyone care?

Even in crowded rooms I feel alone.

There are demons in my head that make even surviving nearly impossible.

I feel I lost myself a long time ago.

Nobody ever wants to stick around in my life. They get sick of me and leave. Plenty of people tell me they care about me, but when I need someone most, there’s no one there. I can’t depend on anyone, least of all myself.

I don’t feel special. I don’t want to try again tomorrow. I feel like breaking down. Like I’m out of place. Like I don’t belong. That no one understands me I want to run away. I want to lock myself in my room and turn the music up so loud that I’ll go deaf. I feel lost.

Living is like a war anymore.

Maybe I’m not worth caring about.

I feel invisible.

I’m a prisoner of my thoughts.

I feel empty, abandoned. I’m not fine. I’m so far from being okay. I’m fragile and broken. I’m trapped.

People always ask the same question: “Are you okay?” And I’ll always give them the same lie: “I’m fine.” But no one can help me anyway.

I can’t take this pain.

People always leave. They don’t care enough to stay.

I’m getting worse.

I just want to die.