I cannot be honest without also being depressing. Suffice it to say, I have kept a lot in which has since bubbled over into a fit of misery. The last two months have been plagued with panic, anxiety, fear, self-loathing, and all those tremendously bad things that no one ever warns you about. Instead, you’re left to your own devices trying to figure out why people do the things they do, why you do the things you do, and so on until one day all the guessing and figuring out becomes to much and your mind snaps in two while you fight to hold on to the pieces, everything else falls away.
Anxiety has taken everything from me. The last 26 years it has robbed me of peace of mind, it has taken away in fleeting moment of happiness I ever had the good fortune to stumble upon, it has caused the most vile and hated insults to be thrown my way, and it has prevented me from ever thinking myself better than the dirt beneath one’s shoes. Anxiety may not have taken my life in the truest of meanings, but it certainly has left a broken, lonely, and empty shell of a person behind.
So much for having a life worth living. So much for the dreams I once dreamt. So much for the feelings of happiness and of joy once associated with my deepest desires. All that is left is a pit of darkness, deep, unyielding emptiness, and silence. No wonder, the silence, when all that I hear is false statements of hope and the consistent reminder that my mood is not to be disclosed in public. No, no one can know. Know one will know. Silence, maybe that will be the death of me.