My diary entries are never good. I don’t write diaries when I’m in a good mood.
I am sort of bored, sort of ill, sort of pissed off and sick of not being me. This thing that doesn’t do anything, doesn’t say much, doesn’t care for much of anything, except when she does, and then it hurts, this person, she is me, but she isn’t.
I’m under the surface. I worry that if the image of what one was remains under the surface for too long, they no longer are that person. This might sound confused, but it’s not confused in my mind. I am clear that I prefer elements of the person I was, but that the longer that person is obscured, by sickness, by chronic..whatever, the less chance there is of retrieving the image from before.
I plaster over the cracks in my personality and it’s mostly more comfortable to remain numb and not think too much. But I can’t get away from the truth that is pounding at my door: I am deeply unfulfilled and, more scarily, I don’t exactly know how to change that. I know how to ignore it, cover it up for a while, but that wears thinner with every application.