10/9/22

I have trauma with diaries. The idea of keeping one is one I haven't entertained in years. I resorted to using Instagram as one for the past handful of years, but I need to move past that. It beat the purpose of having a diary really and exacerbated any negative feelings I was having. With each post I'd wait for comments or replies that validated my emotions which never came of course.

I hope this will be different. Something has to work. Journaling is always recommended so it can't be complete bullshit. I need it to help. Depression is stealing my life. For 10+ years out of 20. It's such a miserable existence not being able to remember ever feeling happy.

I don't know why I still live most times. Well I do, I am a coward. But I do rot away slowly every day. And every time I try to revive myself I feel like an imposter. I don't know any other state except this isolated feeling. I don't belong at it feels too late to try. My whole experience with living has been like trying to understand an inside joke between old friends. I feel alien. As I waste away in my bed I suppose I am subconsciously waiting for the mothership to bring me home.

Other times I feel like my depression and anxiety isn't real. It's strange because I'll find myself being invalidated by the same people who find me to be odd. Maybe I am decent at masking it. Why wouldn't I learn to do that, when my illness isn't viewed as a real illness. When it's seen as a passing feeling or an act of rebellion. I don't know how to stop pretending, even when I'm doing a shitty job at it. It's an instinct.

I made an appointment tomorrow at a facility. I really hope they can help me. I don't want another decade of my life stolen.