I didn’t cry when my grandmother died. I wanted to, I pushed myself to cry, even if it was fake, I felt that crying would make me feel better about myself. last night I cried for the first time in years. Not because someone I loved died, not because someone I cared for hurt me. I cried just because. I never had a panic attack nor have I been to a therapist before, so i dont really know if calling it a panic attack is accurate. I was by myself, listening to Mf DOOM, reading Plato, moments later im shaking, sweating and unable to breath. The world looked gray and… “unreachable.” I felt as if all of the care I had for life, and all of the bullshit it has in stock for me, suddenly vanished. But it wasn’t liberating as I thought it would be. I am afraid that I will stop caring. That one day I will see somebody in need and tell myself to look away, to let life take its course. I am afraid that I am slowly turning into Camus’ stranger, That one day, if my Mother passes away, I will forget to act sad. I don’t want to be this way, I tell myself, but I can’t help it. I’m desensitized, all the shows I watched, books I have read, news I have seen, all of it makes me care less and less about things I used to care about. I come from an affluent life. I never had to struggle for food, for books or for life. When I saw someone in need of help, be it money or just talking, I always wanted to be there. Now I don’t know if i can. Few weeks ago, as i was walking down the streets of NYC, and looking at people begging for money from people who had nothing but money, I felt….. nothing. This made me angry, not at the fact that there are people in struggle, that there are people who are worse off then me, no I was angry at myself for I didn’t care.

I am not alone, but I feel so lonely. I have never had a best friend. I used to blame others for this, “nobody is like me, Nobody has anything interesting to say to me,” but I was just lying to myself. I didn’t care less if my best friend was annoying, or a bitch or an asshole, I just wanted there to be somebody who would call me to hand out, for no reason but to hand out. Looking at it now I think that’s the thing that caused the panic ( or anxiety or whatever the fuck you call it) attack. I was lonely. I don’t think anyone is going to read this, I don’t care to be honest, I just wanted to prove to myself that I have a legitimate problem, and that it is OK to have it.

As a child I used to think about death a lot. I wasn’t suicidal, I just wanted to know how it felt to not feel feelings. It was pure curiosity. Now I’m afraid. In my philosophy class, when we talked about death and dying, I said that I wasn’t afraid of death, only dying. I was lying. I’m afraid of both. That must mean that I still have something to live for right? There are still things that I love. I love music, I love fall, I love everything that make me smile. I love skiing, singing. I love the sun. To calm me down during my “episode,” my friend asked me how I imagined myself in the future. I said I didn’t know, but she didn’t stop there. “There must be something,” and, to my surprise there was. I was in Mongolia, taking pictures of the eagles as they soared above me, as they separated the sky and me. I never thought that I wanted to be something concrete.

I don’t want to be like this. Sometimes I wish I was born into a cult. Happiness based on a lie is better than lying about being happy, and all I want to be is happy.

Ignore this text, it is for myself.