Someone asked me yesterday what makes me happy. Someone that
knows me somehow, someone that cares.
Someone that didn’t give up on me yet. When I hesitated, he asked me if writing
makes me happy. I told him I just didn’t know anymore since I couldn’t write
anymore. How it happened, I don’t know… I just couldn’t do it. If I open a book
to write, I would just get stuck on the first paragraph and when re-reading it,
I would realized nothing made sense at all.
He told me to just write. Sit down and write. Write my
feelings, my fears… Just let it out. It always helped me by the way. I could
always find my safe place on a pen and a paper.
I should start by my feelings. Even though I don’t have them
figured out yet, I should tell you how I feel. I feel like a mess. I try my
best to pull myself up, but I keep falling back down. I just don’t wanna do any
of this anymore. I just wish I was able to quit everything, like I did to my
job. I feel lonely. I feel like I cant fit it anywhere. I feel like Im not needed anywhere.
I feel like a loser. Like an extra in the world. When it
gets to a point that your boyfriend avoids you not to spend time with you and
you are just so tired of everyone. You don’t trust your friends, your family
judges every wrong move you make (but of course, you haven’t been done a right
move for a very long time, have you?), you don’t even trust yourself anymore.
Its over. Youre scared and you pulled everyone away from you. You are done.
But in the end of the night, I had wrote five paragraphs.
Five honest paragraphs. And when I read them back, they make sense. I just
wrote how I feel and that’s amazing. Good night, Julia.
