Journal Entry, 8 May 2020, 10:44am
I’ve never been satisfied with my life because I’ve never been good enough for others.
T___ died; K___ ignored me; and P____ was never there, and since then, I’ve been afraid of committing because I’m afraid that they’ll suddenly disappear.
So, I throw all attachments to the wind; I let them fall where they may, like pieces of litter on a side street. I’m there with those shards as I am convinced that I have nothing of importance to offer to the world. And I sit in the corner of a room, at a party or community event with, not the hope of being seen, but that you’ll pass me by.
Don’t waste your expectations on me; I will only crumple them up and build a barricade around myself so that, sooner or later, I will finally be obscure.
Perhaps that’s why I’ve always been content at being the lonely one, the quiet friend who merely listens, the one who doesn’t dare contradict or confront. I am the one who fills their days with the words of dead writers and the lyrics of lonely musicians. I am the one who dreams of a dark wood to find sanctuary in silence. I am the one who basks in the sun hoping that its warmth will eventually consume me.
I write about finding happiness, yet know that my own cup is empty.
I see the beauty in nature, but find little in myself.
I wish I had words like my beloved long-gone writers; they grasped at beauty like a lifeline, but I let it glide by, like so many dead leaves on the wind.
I keep myself alone because I am always on guard. I prefer loneliness to loss, and I am content when solitary.
I have become the only person I can trust.
I had a break in my teletherapy session yesterday when we were examining my emotions as to why I’m never satisfied with myself. Please do not worry about me, even if the words above do spark that reaction. Perhaps some of you reading this have felt this way at one point. I am still processing yesterday and the days that will follow.