The user You loved, died.
Grappling with the death of the person I once was.
Writing it in the middle of the night, handling my own shit, keeping my emotions intact, and preserving the feeling all in a corner of my heart, knowing that it might never see the light of day, that it might make me sound like a complete lunatic; that it might not be good enough, that no one will ever read it, and that I might never see the people I wrote it for again.
I’m tired, tired of pretending, of pretending that everything will be okay someday. I can’t deny it any longer, and I’m finally ready to admit that I’m miserable and that I need help. But what kind of help?
How do I reconcile the fact that the person I was once was no longer the person I am? How do I come to terms with the pain I inflict on myself daily? How do I accept that the person I used to be is dead and will never come back? How do I make peace with these demons, which tore every inch of the flesh from what I used to be? The demons are in my head, and they’re telling me that I’m worthless; that I should just kill myself; that I’m a horrible person. How can I get them to leave me alone?
Shit happens, and it just goes on. I used to wonder how someone could cry themselves to sleep, but now that I’ve been doing it for a year, I guess I know. I used to worry that if everyone forgot about me, I would be left in the dust and forgotten. But guess what happened? I vanished.
And there was nobody to look for the human who died within me; nobody ever searched for the girl who once carried a smile that would light up every inch of the room. She was gone, and I was left with only memories of what she once was.
I could feel the emptiness growing inside me and the tears. I would lay in my bed, feeling so helpless, so lonely, and so lost.
She was definitely a crybaby, an oversharer, and an over-enthusiastic person, and now she doesn’t even cry when she wants to. She had pushed away her emotions and started to ignore them, convincing herself that it was for the best. She had convinced herself that she was strong enough to handle anything on her own. But she wasn’t.
She’s always been a blubbering mess, but now she’s just a complete non-entity whenever she needs to get something off her chest.
They say that with their help, they can bring her back; they can help her. But what is the living corpse she is now? Can she ever be brought back to life?
I don’t think I should believe them. I don’t know if I should put my faith in them. I don’t feel if I should risk it all for this person who I thought I understood and loved. I don’t know if I should take that chance. But then again, what if I don’t? What if I just stayed here and watched her fade away, forever, alone and broken? What then?
I missed her so much yesterday. I miss her, even more, today, and I’ll remember her for the rest of my life.
Kenopsia, I call myself now. At every minute, I remind myself that I am living in a body that was once vibrant, full of life, and alive with energy. This body was once full of energy and life, and now it is only a shell of its former self.
