I’m stuck so deep down into myself that the only way I can say the things I honestly, uncensordly, unempathetically feel is by writing them down while sitting alone in a room with a window view. With all the courage I can muster I give them to people so they can see that I have so many more thoughts than I can say, have so many more words than the few that come out crinkled and cracked and boring and I mostly wish it wasn’t like that, that I didn’t have to be this way. But I do, I am, for now. And it’s shaping my entire life. And I don’t know if it’s good or bad or right or wrong or if any of those things even really exist, but I’m living, I’m doing the best I can. I’m trying not to be so afraid of everything.

Without writing I would be a shell. I would be hollow and hurt and I don’t want to think about how empty my head and heart would be. Shut up, they would be empty. I wouldn’t be a person. I would be a ghost, I would get caught in my mind, they would send me away. I would fade.

I think I’m learning that I don’t want to fade.