Everything hurts and my depression is getting worse every night.
During the day I can avoid it, sort of. I can distract myself.
I stay up until 4AM most nights not because I don’t feel tired.
Whenever I go to sleep, I cry. I cry for a few hours, or I panic. Or I realize how hollow and empty I feel. And I start feeling like I’m going nowhere, everything is pointless, and why should I continue to deal with it.
Every night I think to myself that I’m not a “real” woman. That I feel like a fake, like no matter what I do, no matter how much makeup I wear, what clothes I wear, there’ll always be people who will be ready to tell me how much of a fake I am.
And whenever I think, about myself. I struggle to find anything to feel proud of.
I have a highschool diploma. I dropped out of every university I ever attended.
Any career I apply for, have references for, have help for, where I fit the criteria... it’s always denied.
Sometimes I feel like, eventually, I have to go back to working in retail just to make some semblance of an income.
Then sell my days and hours alive away to survive.
And that’d be it.
And when I die, I feel like no one will remember me as much more than the jobless, useless, trans woman who cried too much. Who was too weak to do what she wanted to do.
I wish I could’ve been one of those people who sails through college, who can endure that, who can pass that. I wish I had the mental fortitude to do that. I wish I didn’t piss away my chances and opportunities.
I wish I could wake up at a normal hour, and not eventually in the afternoon. I wish I could sleep at a normal hour, and not dread every hour that passes until I lay in bed and think about all of this again. And cry about it again. And sob about it again. And have more nightmares, and wake up terrified.
I feel like the most useless, pathetic person who ever lived.
I’m lucky to live in a house, to have a bed, internet and so on. But I don’t feel like I can ever be the person who, when put out on her own, will ever be able to have all of that again.
I’m scared when the day comes and I lose everything. Physical and not. I’m scared I won’t be able to deal with it, when I can barely deal with the thought of it.
My only hope, for the last year and longer, is the book I want to write. But the more I write, the more I think about it, the more flaws I see. The more problems, the more complications.
And if I publish the book with the flaws, complications and problems I see.
I have to get lucky, or it was a pointless, absolute waste of my life.
I hate myself. I’ve been told the first step to finding happiness from all this is to love myself. But I don’t know how to do that.
Any time I try to put together the sticky notes of positive messages, they only make me feel bitter and angry. They never feel like little “truths” but more like a series of lies I tell myself to trick myself into thinking I’m okay. That I’m a good person. That I’m not completely useless.
But, whatever. I don’t know. I couldn’t even continue to hold my old Starbucks job because the stress was getting to me, and the pain I have constantly in my back would only get worse on the job.
A week before I quit, I remember going outside on break, pressing my face into my hand and practically sobbing from how bad my back was hurting me. Or the absolute sense of horror I had any time I fucked up a drink. Or the hurt I felt I deserved whenever a customer yelled at me, or my shift supervisors became frustrated with me. How many things I dropped, I broke.
I can’t even do that right. Or do that well.
I’m not good at anything, and I’ve failed at everything.
