I spent years romanticising people who felt too much. Turns out there is nothing romantic about a mind that won’t let you rest.

Note: I always said I’d be honest here. It’s my diary after all. And I’d always promised to write like nobody’s watching. Even if they are now. Just incase it finds the right person and makes them feel less alone. Even if I’m drowning. Maybe we can drown together.

Thank you for being here and holding my feelings with care.

Just going to preface this by saying: yes, I am speaking with medical professionals on a regular basis. No, we haven’t found the root of the problem. Yet.

I remember when I was younger, I was so envious of poets and writers and readers and real deep thinkers. Not like how I was back then. A fake. Obsessed with the broken yearners, wanting what they had. I felt simple minded. And like most teenagers obsessed with Lana Del Rey and Amy Winehouse, my angst and depth were entirely performative.

I spent years romanticising people who felt too much.
Turns out there is nothing romantic about a mind that won’t let you rest.

Careful what you fucking wish for you stupid fucking child.

I want to give it back. Please take it back. I want a simple mind. A lobotomy. The depths of my mind are endless and it never stops. Thinking thinking thinking. I’m looking for endings for stories that ended years ago. I write, I rewrite, I write some more. I only exist in reveries.

I just got home and it’s already begun. Being indoors has me anxious and restless. I don’t know what to do with myself. I have cabin fever. Can’t focus. The headaches. Oh god, the headaches. I’m too exhausted to go outside. I try. Get ready. Collapse. Make excuses. Feel too guilty to sleep while the sun is shining. Stare at phone. Cook something? Call a friend. Where are you? Can we go out? Somewhere busy but not too busy. Fun but not too loud. Pleeeease get me out of the house. Drag me. I need to see people.

Make a plan. Can’t make it actually. I’m too sick.

I feel like shit today. Like really really sorry for myself. I am convinced that I am rotten. I am awful. I am the problem.

I have people who love me, yes. And it is not a fluke that I have so many amazing people in my life.