I confess.

I late night snack and I cannot deny.

I late night snack and can’t stop no matter how hard I try.

I confess I am not perfect.

Because I find comfort in junk food if it’s after eleven.

I don’t discriminate on what I eat either. Chips, chocolate, cereal, cake, jerky… anything I can get my hands on.

I confess I have a fatal flaw.

I confess I am not perfect.

Not even a little bit. Not even at all.

Medicating to tolerate my family.

Yeah, it’s true. It’s sad and it’s true.

I am so thankful for anxiety medications these days.

I’ve spent a lot of time in my life being pushed around. By my family, by teachers, by bosses, by those who I thought were friends, by strangers… by basically everyone. Thing is, I’m not that girl anymore. I’m not that girl who accepts being pushed around.

The problem with fighting back is, when it’s your family you often aren’t allowed to fight back. I can’t just stand up and start swinging punches when my dad decides he’s going to be an alcoholic bully. I can’t just refuse to acknowledge their presence when they piss me off. I have to be ‘bigger than that’, ‘for the sake of the family’. Ugh. Family guilt is for real.

How do you tolerate your family when they’re racist assholes? Why should you have to tolerate your family when they’re racist assholes. And oh my fucking hell, my father is such a misogynist.

I’m just over today.

So that happened.

Today has been physically and mentally exhausting. Trying to be ‘on’ when people are around is getting tiresome on the best of days and almost unbearable on the regular.

The thing about life right now is, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make things better. It’s almost like I’m at that point they describe of when someone is drowning in deep waters, when they’re struggling so hard they have trouble determining which way is up and which way is down.

I’m not a self-medicator normally, but today, today was a requirement. I took a Valium pill about an hour ago and at least I’m feeling somewhat calm now. I’m feeling numb as well, but the calm is what’s important to me.

I look forward to the day when I don’t have to worry about days like this.

Woe is me.

I’m having a pity party for myself tonight.

Lately I’ve been realizing more and more that my family really doesn’t know, or want to, know me.

It’s not for lack of trying. I’ve tried to involve them in my life. I’ve tried to share with them my perspectives, my points of view, my thoughts. I’ve really, genuinely tried over the years. I just don’t think they care. So long as I am there, so long as I can pick up their kids when needed, wash the dishes after thanksgiving dinner, so long as I can help with the upkeep of the family, then I’m serving my purpose.

Which kind of leads me to wonder…. what would happen if I just stopped? Would I ever hear from my family at all? Would they reach out just to say hello? Would they even care? Honestly, I don’t know that I’d hear from them at all.

So long as I’m just there… they accept that I’m there. I think they’d just move on with their lives if I just… moved. I think they’d just honestly forget to talk to me at all…

What do you want from me?

My ex likes to play games with my heart. After breaking up with me by leaving and moving to the other side of the world, he likes to routinely send me really long winded emails, text messages and voice messages talking about how much he misses me and how much he regrets his decisions and wishes he could go back and do things over.

He knows that I’m still in love with him and he knows that I’m trying to move on.

A friend of mine told him recently that I went on a date with someone new and that night, he blew up my phone and my emails talking about how he wishes it were him taking me out on a date and that he hopes this man is good enough for me but this man likely isn’t… and that he wishes he could fly me to him so that we could be together and so on and so forth.

And I just…

I don’t hate him. We’re not in a bad place. We were the very best of friends long before we ever dated and while I’d love for us to go back to being friends, I don’t know if we can. Not if he’s going to be like this.

I need to move on. I know that.

I don’t want to cut him out of my life but part of me feels like I won’t ever move on so long as he’s sending me these messages.

Where’d the time go?

I saw a Christmas Tree today and I started to cry. The year’s almost over and I’m still in such a dark, dark place. This is not how things were supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to be the way things worked out.

Sadly, this is my life.

The other day a friend of mine said ‘You’re far too pretty to be so depressed’. I know that it’s not something he’s ever felt so it’s not something that he understands, but damn, I wanted to inflict physical harm at that point in time. The implication that someone’s physical appearance contributes to whether or not they struggle is so… ugh. This is why talking about mental health is so hard for so many people.

Fearing the fear.

I’m afraid of how I am going to pay my bills this month. I am afraid of where my next pay cheque is going to come. I’m afraid of when my next pay cheque is going to come.

I’m afraid that I’m not good enough to make it in this big world. I’m afraid that, though I really don’t want to be, I’m never going to be anything more than painfully average… on a good day. I’m afraid that’s all I’m meant for.

I’m afraid that people don’t understand. I’m afraid that everyone is judging me… because they are. And I’m afraid their judgments aren’t favourable… because they aren’t. At least no usually.

I’m afraid that I’ll never live up to the person they want me to bed. I’m afraid that my values don’t align with their’s and they’re going to resent me for that… if and when they ever find out. I’ve been afraid to share my true self with them for this very reason. I am… what one might consider a shell of a human. I am whoever that person wants from me at the moment which I am with them. I am the manifestation of their desires for me because I do not believe they would ever accept mine.

I’m afraid that true happiness isn’t ever attainable for people like me. Sometimes, some people just don’t get to be happy. That’s how the world works. While I try to think more positively than what my brain normally projects, it’s hard to think of myself as someone special enough to deserve happiness. Why should I be so lucky?

I’m afraid that I’m too insecure. I feel like a mere fraction of the human being that I am supposed to be. And I’m afraid that I’ll never be able to fix that.

Anxiety is so hard.