When did everything get so fucked up?

Step by step, decision by decision, I somehow fucking got here.

I’m literally getting obese, I’m fatter than ever before. I never exercise and despise the thought of it. I eat McDonald’s 6-7 times a week. I eat junk food. I don’t even care anymore.

My boyfriend is either a psycho, or I am, or we both are.

I know I have my quirks. I’m selfish. I don’t remember people’s birthdays. I’m always sad or depressed or in pity-mode somehow. I feel sorry for myself. I feel alone.

I’m lost. So, so lost. I’m not working through my shit. I find ways to forget through movies and social media. I have no idea what’s next. Life is a struggle. And it’s getting worse.

When we fight, I feel like I have nothing left to live for. I know that that in itself is a diseased way of thinking. I must be ill somehow. Codependent. Lazy. Hedonistic, in a fucked up way.

I don’t like people and I don’t trust them. I’m judgmental. Maybe I am the narcissist.

He came into my life and he was so soft. Honest. Real. He held me. He saved me.

And now he’s fucking me up.

No, that can’t be. No other person can save you or fuck you up. Only you can do that to yourself. Or not?

I can’t imagine living without him. I’m alone but with no desire to make new friends. I don’t like dealing with life. I am always by myself. At first I wanted it, now I got it and I hate it.

I hate… myself. And yet I think I’m better than anybody else. He may be a psycho but so am I. Do I even deserve real love? Or just this fuckery? Deep down, I feel like I know the answer.

What even is life? What is it for? Sometimes it feels so pointless. Yes, I am engaging in a pity party. But I honestly don’t know what to do with myself anymore. One thing goes wrong and I feel like it’s all crashing down.But I do have a lot to be thankful for. This apartment. My mom. My passions. And maybe that is the base on which I can rebuild myself again.

I don’t know where to start. I’m scared. I feel small and irrelevant.

But creating has always saved me. The universe has always been honest with me. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I know I’m fucked up but I don’t want to hurt anyone. And that’s where we differ. {me and the narcissists}

I can’t expect anything from anyone. Only I can save myself. And it feels a task terrible to grasp.

But step by step, I can move somewhere. First, start walking. Then, start painting. Then, start writing again. Maybe I’ll make a new friend. And all those little things, little victories, they’ll add up. And one day, I’ll have a reason to smile again.

🌆