It's that feeling when you wake after a long sleep.
And the sun streams in through the window on your face.

I would give anything just to stay like that forever.
Getting up takes too much effort.

It's that feeling of heavy-lidded eyes on a long car ride.
The steady, low hum of the highway lullaby.

I beg sleep to meet me there.
Yet, she is evasive.

Because it's not what you see when you dream.

Whelp.
Once again, this ******* ****** up.
I tried to help her, but I just made everything a million times worse.

I ended up leaving her sobbing there.
How can I ever come back from that?
She probably hates me.
It's justified.
It'll take some time before I can forgive myself for being a ******* waste of space.

I recently looked at pictures of me.
*******, I'm ******* ugly as ****.
Mirrors don't bother me, it's pictures that do.
All that ******* disgusting acne.

Such a fat, pudgy face.
No discernable cheekbones.
It makes me want to take a knife and sculpt my own face.

I told myself I'd wait until after my birthday.
I don't want Christmas associated with death.
I always tell myself to wait.
Why?

Maybe I hope that by then, I'd forget all this **** inside my head.
It's never worked.
It never will work.
There's nothing, nothing will stop these thoughts.

I write these as a way to cope, but it doesn't work.
I wash my face twice every day to make myself look presentable, but it doesn't work.
My mom is taking immunotherapy for her cancer, but it won't cure her.

Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing­
Nothing.

A mole on my arm has been hurting and getting darker each passing year.
I know what it is.
I know I'll die from it one day.
I can't control that.
It's a gene mutation, after all.
I might be medicated for that in the future, but it won't work.
Nothing will.

I could tell my friends what it is.
But they'd cry.
It's best to have them happy about a different way of death than to cry over a gene mutation.

She thinks she'd be sad if I left.
Lies.
I know she hates me.
I don't know why she talks to me and pretends to be a friend to me.

Maybe it's pity.
Another "friend" already told me that I was a pity friend to them.
So, I'm not surprised if she feels the same.
It makes things easier for me.

I seem troubled here, and she talks to her friend, having fun.
It's nice.
I don't necessarily have a closest friend.

My closest friend and I are becoming distant.
It *****.
I wish I could text her more.
Which I can, but it's something about me.

I'm terrible at maintaining only online friendships.
That's how one of my close friends and I don't talk anymore.
That was my own doing.

I sit and don't do much of anything.
I don't really draw anymore either.
It's not fun anymore.
Every time I draw, I just see the flaws.

Nothing is good enough and it never will be.
I don't know why I try.
I'm not good at anything.
I'm not good for anything.

Today is the 29th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.
I should know.
I had a report on it for my final last year.
Funny how that works.
Now it's stuck in my head forever until I forget again.

I know I will.
I always forget.
It's a symptom.
My ******-up head is destroying my memory.

I can remember basic things, but I forget things that occur.
I don't remember what I ate for dinner yesterday.
I don't remember what I talked to Blake about yesterday,
so I don't remember why he's mad at me.

It *****.
It makes me come off as uncaring when I forget these details about somebody.
That's probably why she sees me as uncaring.
That's not true.
I do care about her.
It's difficult to express for me.

I was raised in a way that didn't include the teaching of sympathy or empathy.
I know this sounds horrible, but if my dad left, I wouldn't be sad.
I wouldn't be happy either, but I wouldn't be sad.
He's already shown what he thinks of me.

I've never good enough.
I get a 4.0 for a semester and a 3.9 the rest of the year and I need to "try harder".
He's always telling me, "you're not trying," or "you're not listening", and I hate it.

How would he know about what I think and feel?
He's not me.
He's set on me being this perfect ******* angel child that I can never be.
He tells me that I'll never be able to pursue an art career and should focus more on studying than drawing.

I don't care.
I WILL be an artist.
I don't care how long it takes.
I'll be an artist and shove it in his face when I have my own studio and open a gallery.

**** the nonbelievers.
I can fly planes AND draw.
Just watch me.
If I don't off myself by then.

I had those random thoughts again.
Such as; how people pick you last for the first game of the semester played in a gym class, even though they don't know how good or bad you are.

It's off of appearance alone, which is *******.
"Oh they look thin, they're probably not good at (sport)."
What the **** does that have to do with anything?

When we played soccer, I showed up everyone else,
even though I was picked last.
They had the nerve to say to me, "Wow, good job!"
As if the notion that I was good at a sport was some sort of miracle.

Whatever.
Not like I played soccer for eleven ******* years.
Not like they knew that since sixth grade.

The way they say, "Wow, good job!", makes me sick.
They say it to me as if I'm unable to be good, just because they perceive me to be horrible at sports.
They sound so surprised.

Another thing's been stuck in my head ever since I've read Paper Towns.
John Green mentions people seeing mirrors of others as who they believe the person to be.
I find this true.
People love to think that they know someone very well, when they only know the version that they've created.
Green says we need to see through the window to see who the person actually is.

Which seems ******* impossible.
But it's not.
Just talk to them instead of assuming.

They've already built a mirror of who I am.
Of course, it's completely wrong.

I'm not some boring skinny twig that can't talk right.
I'm not smart, and I'm not rude.
I have emotions, and I really care about others, much more than myself, even.

That's not who I am to anyone else, though.

i.

I find that it's often other people's things that we accidentally break
except for our own hearts.


ii.

In a dream I once had, my dad said this bit:
I know it's tough right now, but you need to pull through. You can make it.


iii.

And from my mom, in a few years her picture will sit on the bookshelf:
I love you. You will survive yourself.


iv.

Maybe all of this was one big ******* mistake, but oh god, not you.


v.

Be there for those who care, otherwise, those who care will seldom be there.