End of the journal entries

I deleted a bunch of posts and drafts on here, and I'll be putting an end to my journal entries. Because I don't want to look back and remember these days. And no one has to waste their time reading me being an insufferable cry baby each day. If I ever feel the need to announce something, I'll make a special post for it. I apologise to anyone I may have annoyed with my complaining. I just want to get these thoughts out of my head but I'm too much of a coward to let it all out (even when I'm doing it anonymously).

I'm just feeling constant shame for being visible in this body: with this stupid ugly face, and my nonsense talking, in a world full of beautiful people. Can't stop being a headache, a bore to everyone around me. It's a pain. Waking up and looking in the mirror, trying to reassure myself that I look good enough to be seen. I imagine an impossible future, trying to find strength in it to keep hanging on.

I just go on day after day, dreaming on a lie...

I'd give everything for a warm hug right now.

Downhill

I'm literally living the thing I was most afraid of a couple of months ago. Tomorrow (technically today) is the first day of the semester, and I look the same as I did in May. I could've maintained 40kg if my heart hadn't been beating funny. I've spent the last 2-3 hours trying on every outfit I own, and all of them look like sh*t because what's underneath feels like a pig. Now that I've been purging for the last 3-4 days, I have to get back down to at least 38kg before the 5th of November.

Why? I don't know. I guess because the little bug inside my brain told me to.

Pure

Help would only cause me more harm.

I’d rather die than lose my sense of control or let others see me looking “normal”.

I know, in reality, I’m not the one in control.

But I crave the false satisfaction it gives me.

Empty and pure.

That’s all I want to be.

I’m trapped inside this stupid cage. I can’t let it go, but I can’t live like this either.

Tired

I'm so tired.

I don’t want to write about how miserable I am all the time. I could have been writing about how much I enjoyed nature while I was away from home. I’m back home now. It gets tiring, even for me, writing about the same nonsense—how sad and lonely I am—just proves that I’m a stupid loser, a loser who can’t be satisfied no matter what. I’m just a headache, a burden that somehow people claim to like.

I wanted to close this blog because of this, I wrote the html to show no trace of my posts. But I feel connected to this place now, I had to turn it back to this. I don’t want to bore anyone with my weirdness.

I’ve been having these emotional outbursts for the last few days. When I think about the future, dreaming about all these things, I can’t help but cry my eyes out because, deep down, I know I won’t get there. All I have is my thoughts, constantly thinking. I wish I could escape my mind, my own words that won’t stop hurting me.

I miss my dad. He wouldn’t talk to me about my feelings, but his presence would always distract me; we would watch sports and documentaries all day, talking about politics and anything around us. I guess he was too good for this world. I remember listening to these lyrics after the day he passed away:

"You call this justice, world?
You have given neither love nor wealth
You are the world that belongs to evil
The killer of decent people"

14 months... Time really flies by. Now it's just us left in this house; three people who don’t even try to act like a family. My brother just pushes me to do things; he just came to my room and saw me listening to music, and he’s begging me to do anything else other than listening to music, but I can’t.

I want to reach out, to be bold. I guess I’m a master at pushing people away. I want others to be around me, but I just assume that they don’t want me around them. So, I give them the space they deserve before it gets too much, in case they are too polite to tell me that I bother them.

   

Night Time

I remember a time when I’d lie in bed, looking up at the stars, wondering if the person who would love me was gazing at the same sky. I’d choose a star, believing that if someone out there was destined to be my lover, they’d be looking at it too. From being so certain that someone would love me one day, when did I become so full of self-pity? What changed?

Such a cliché: 'Is he looking up at the same sky?'

I was a cliché, but I was hopeful. I would wonder where he was, what he was doing, what he was feeling...

'Did he ever think of me the way I thought of him?'

Now, I know. No one is thinking of me right now. At night, I don’t look up at the sky and search for stars anymore.

I’m not completely lost in my misery; there’s still a small part of me that hopes someone out there might care about me, someone who could make me feel lovable. The sun is about to rise, the stars will soon disappear, and here I am, thinking about love again.