It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts and why won’t it ever stop hurting?

I don’t want to think like this and I know I shouldn’t but I can’t stop wishing that I could be better. If I’m not the best then I’m not worth anything. Why can’t I be better than other people? Why do I need to be better than other people on everything? I don’t understand how anyone can stand the pressure and how I am still standing. I wish I wasn’t.

Why won’t it stop hurting? I wish I could make myself stop thinking so detrimentally and I try and I try but I can’t. I try so hard and nothing is ever good enough. I should know that this isn’t good for me but I do it and my heart trembles every time I dare to question my future and my life.

Why can’t I stop hurting. What about me is so defective that I can’t even think like a normal person and do as well as normal people? Why am I so broken? Messed up in the head? Near as diagnosed with the sorrowful affliction of the mind, and every other affliction of the heart? I’m so filled with anger and pain and terror and fear and sadness that I cannot look at myself in the mirror or stand to wake up in the morning alive, still breathing. This is not how people are supposed to live, so that means that I’m wrong, and even my breathing feels short and scarce.

It hurts. How is it that others don’t even try and yet I’m still falling apart despite my best efforts, and I can feel my head filling with both mind-numbing blankness and throbbing, chaotic, and jumbled half-thoughts. I know what’s for me so why can’t I do it? Why do I fear the thought of watching others move to and fro with their lives as if they can handle it? They seem to accept that life is futile in every way and how is that possible?

Meanwhile, I’m wrong and never, ever right. Never worth a thing if what I’m good at isn’t good enough. I fear so much; I fear the people in my life, I fear the concepts of stress and futures, and I fear myself the most. I’m scared I’m going to fail and fall and shatter and break and no one can even pretend to care about how I feel. They ask if they can help, they can’t. They leave, because they tried, at least. I understand; helping people is too hard when you can barely help yourself. Why can’t I help myself?

My thoughts rebel from the stagnation of peace and happiness, and instead they burrow into my head and lay seeping under my skin, hissing and rioting like an insidious pile of snakes. I’m uncomfortable in every skin I have worn since what feels like forever, and nothing satisfies the need for simplicity and purpose, both of which life supplies nothing of. It’s a chore to live for such things. Why does it have to hurt so much?

Cold sticks to my skin relentlessly because I am. Cold and alone and scared, hiding from responsibility and freedom of choice, that’s me. Under that cupboard, sobbing into my hands which have yet again failed to set things right, to seize the path that took me to joy. As a child, these small voices were strong and emotional, and no one heard it still. I know that what I have to offer now is nothing more than a sack of self-pity and guilt.

Who cares. They don’t, and family ends where the law suits begin. That isn’t important. Pain is important, depression is real, and you can’t believe that you have yet to grow out of surges of panic. What’s important is that I failed somewhere in my programming because somewhere in what I am and what I am supposed to have lies a discrepancy, and those feelings are ruinous but they never disappear. If I was anything worth anything, there would be more response to my cries of help but others do not see. If they can pass through obstacles in life, so should I, but I never pass. They like to marvel at me, tell me to get over it, but I’ve yet to succeed in either of these respects. Burden is what I am meant for, and the useless sobriety of existence labors on without me, and yet I have an inexhaustible supply of stress and anxiety and heaviness.

It’s impossible for me to bear. How could anyone do it? If they can, why am I such an imperfection? I tarnish my self and I corrupt from the inside out because the outside has been corrupted enough, and any sadness that arises piles until my heart stops seizing and brain regains its mental footing. But if others can, and I can’t, then I’m not right. What is wrong with me and why does it hurt so bad? Why why why why why. What is the meaning of worth when you’ve never known it? When you aren’t even worth it?

What is the point when your best isn’t good enough for you, for anyone, for anything, and no one notices or cares or helps when you are tired to your joints and your heart aches from your own self-inflicted pain. Like your own obsessive compulsivity, you can’t stop thinking negatively, regardless of how hard you try. If nothing works, what do you do then? I’d like to go sleep for a while…

As long as possible wouldn’t be extensive enough.