1. I make lists of things I want to accomplish that go unchecked.
2. Thoughts about what I’ve done which I can’t seem to forgive myself for keep me up at night, and thoughts about what I should do to make myself into someone better haunt my days.
3. I track everything I put in my body and everything I sweat out of my pores, but this never equates to a body size I feel comfortable in.
4. I start “self-care” regimens, but they quickly devolve into self-loathing.
5. I want to be unique, to be special, but I find I’m not even a one-in-four kind of person.
6. I’m told that no one’s journey is the same and that my struggles are valid, but more and more it seems like people say those things as a general platitude, a way to make themselves feel better when they don’t really care to listen to the struggle of others.
7. I write poetry that exposes my optimistically raw hopefulness, but I never share it with anyone because I just can’t bear how the pessimistic views of the world will tear my optimism to shreds.
8. In regard to #7, I also can’t bear for someone to call me a hypocrite when I do share a struggle. Even though having hope and struggling emotionally and mentally are not mutually exclusive, it seems the world sees them as binary opposites.
9. I want to write, but I’m afraid of what will come out on the page.
10. When I do conquer that fear and write, I want to share it, but I can’t stop comparing myself to others and wishing I had even one ounce of others’ talents. (See #5)
11. I know I shouldn’t read the comments section, but I just can’t help myself. I always hope to find some redemption for humanity, but it seems to be slipping further and further away. And still… I hope. (See #7)
12. People tell me how smart I am, but all I feel are the inadequacies of shit decisions I’ve made in my life.
13. I want to be a part of a “sisterhood” so badly that I will give everything to the detriment of my own happiness to female friendships, and when those friendships inevitably fall apart, I always blame myself.
14. My mother was one of my only anchors to being able to feel connected to the world around me, and I’ve felt so alone these past 4 years even though I am far from lonely.
15. I don’t know who you are, but I love you anyways.
Feature Image: Photo by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash