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Another night.

There's a deep, unsettling feeling of melancholy in my soul. I thought I moved beyond survival instincts, that I was in a position where I could comfortably enjoy life and the journey of self-discovery ahead. How wrong I was. As productive as I attempt to make each day, I'm filled with anxiety about why I can't seem to satisfy myself. It's such a tumultuous process, to remember how to feel whole again. I wrap my brain around what I deserve, what others tell me I deserve, and I truly want to believe I have the conviction to push forward and outgrow this tired state. I'm slowly losing my sense of self-preservation and it's a terrifying feeling. I feel aimless and alone. I just want to experience unabashed love again.


I'm so fucking tired. I often wonder when I'll cave under the pressure. There's a deranged part of me that is waiting for rock bottom, to finally feel like the only way is up... but as much progress as I project, I keep slipping back into this empty shell of what I once was, while trying my hardest to stay slightly above the breaking point.


I find it ironic that I have the capacity to understand and rationalize why life pans out in strange ways, yet not fully comprehending that rationalization doesn't equate to acceptance. My thoughts aren't aligning with my heart and I feel powerless to change it. Why is it so hard to stop hurting?


As I crawl into bed, I'm met with a sense of dread. I take full responsibility for these emotions and the way I choose to not express them. I crave to be held tightly and know that it's okay to unburden myself. I also refuse to hurt others by outwardly acknowledging how awful things are going.


There's a light somewhere. It's really sad I see it brightest when I'm near him.

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