I live a charmed life.

I attended a private school. I ride horses. I have two beaitiful dogs. Animals often tend to like me. I have numerous wonderful friends. I have an intelligent, educated, complete family that cares for me. I have frequent vacations. I enjoy my church. I have a sense of humour. I have stories to tell. I have my health. I have no disabilities. I live in an upscale neighbourhood. I can often acquire the items that I want. I've done rather well in school. I have passions. I don't live in the throes of poverty or civil war. I live comfortably. I have been granted every opportunity to succeed.

So why then do I visit a therapist? A psychiatrist? Why do I take an SSRI? Why have I self-harmed in the past? Why have I abused alcohol, painkillers and sleeping pills? Why do I write such  miserable books on the internet?

My life is scarily stable, suspiciously auspicious.

Not perfect, as I was mercilessly bullied for an entire decade and now hold no sense of self-worth, but I live a life I love.

So, why am I this way?

Because I am  the problem.

I don't do a single thing right. I anger those around me into smashing tables and insulting me. I am the thoughtless and the inconsiderate.

I'm not capable of becoming the lawyer or actuarial scientist my family always wanted me to be.

I'm not a popular social butterfly.

I have little athletic prowess.

I have no significant talents.

I haven't a single thing to make me worthy of this life.

I am a cold, warped, fickle, unintelligent, uninteresting waste of oxygen.

I belong nowhere.

I'm a leech.

I get attached to each and every person that is unlucky enough to award me a second glance.

I kid myself into thinking that I have something to offer the world because my English teachers and Wattpad readers have believed in my writing. Yet it is undoubtedly a fallacy as everyone knows how sensitive I am to criticism.

I need achievements in order for my existence to be validated, however I am oft too lazy to put in much effort into my endeavours.

I'm sheltered beyond belief. I cannot drive, handle paperwork or do anything else that would mark me as a functioning adult. I have naught to contribute. 

I have more fears and phobias than can be counted. Everything terrifies me and makes me seem even more pathetic and pitiful to others around me.

I'm nothing more than one of the masses, barely clinging onto mediocrity. I am a polluted drop in the ocean. Someone irrelevant and insignificant, something forgettable.

I always thought I was special. Something more. Someone who shone. Something noteworthy. Yet age taught me that I am nothing important or unique.

I had so much promise.

People wanted so much from me.

I should have been able to deliver.

Why couldn't I have just been enough?