I write to release.

I write to release.

At the bottom is nothingness

Inadequacy. Stupid girl.

The disconnect - 

I'm disconnected from everyone.

Not up to the task. So, so much mental illness here. 

So many illnesses -

So many fucking illnesses -

I'm so tired of being sick.

Mentally, physically. Why does existence hurt so much?

Why does everything have to be so fucking hard?

I want off this ride.

I can't see my thoughts until they're sitting still on the page in front of me. I write to make sense of the world. Of myself.

"Your taste in men is 'traumatized'." -my child. He's not wrong.

At the bottom, there is nothingness.
After the rage and the pain and the screaming and the tears -
there is nothing.

I am blank. I make choices as required but they are without substance. Even crucial choices have no weight.

I am a void. a moving -sometimes- mist of vague awareness with no emotional priorities and a cold uninterested semblance of logic.

🎵 Anhedonia but I don't care [to the tune of 'I'm a lumberjack and I don't care']. #gallows humor

There is not even a void to fill; it is the absence of Being. 

It feels like I imagine a lobotomy would feel like.