Nothing has changed since that time that I couldn't breathe.
Maybe some things, I guess. How often, how much it hurts.

It's difficult to tell whether or not I'm doing it to myself or if you're doing it to me or if nobody is doing it to anybody except for the chemicals in my brain to my sanity. It might be different if things affected you even kind of similarly but they don't.

I wish that I knew someone that really understood how I felt and they could tell me what I wanted to hear, but have that be the truth. Because at this point, sugar coated words are killing me but not as much as what is probably real.

Sometimes I think all it takes is a movie to show you that you're not where you want to be in life.

I don't even know enough to write about it.

Cutting off my hair was analeptic, but I still feel like I'm in a competition that I'll never be finished with. My mind second guesses itself, and I get brought up and let down with my own hopes and ideas.


I wish that home was a therapeutic idea to me.