I have feelings.
They exist. They are anything BUT formant. I am literally not fooling anyone by pretending I don’t have them.
I am insecure.
I am not fooling anyone by pretending that I’m not anymore.
I am insecure about my feelings and my thoughts and my hair and my personality and my skin and my opinions and ideas. I am almost insecure about my health.
Everything I do is annoying.
Per of me wishes I was without feelings and physical needs so I could be good enough.
But man is not intended, in his fallen state, to be perfect.
As of late, it has been increasingly difficult to get out of bed. I feel each waking moment I am fated to be bombarded with disappointed stares. Or to be told about all the areas I fail to come to par. So I sneak around like a criminal avoiding arrest. As of late I feel trapped in the endless cycle of self-sabotage. I feel sometimes like I can’t breathe.
I NEED sunlight, can winter please be over?
I feel like I am the epitome of mediocrity. I can’t escape the pit of ‘almost enough’ or ‘off brand’.
I am a bundle of anxiety, bridled depression, and poorly concealed angst.
I am losing my mind.