Unhealed

 Ive been imagining stabbing myself in the stomach quite a lot. Something in me prods me on. “Do it for the plot. Maybe if I was injured, they’d cut the whole thing off. And if I was smaller, I wouldn’t feel so valueless. Self-centered, indulgent, goth. Healed people don’t seek validation from other people, I will never be healed because if it means giving up feeling pretty because someone tells me I’m pretty, I will die unhealed. 

Everyone feels like a burden. No one knows how to ask for help. So we all resent each other when someone comes to us for support. “Don’t they know I’m sad? Can’t they see I’m in pain?” Of course they can’t. Because you never say. 

I don’t want to keep going. I don’t know what its all for. I’m tired and I’m restless, I’m sleepy and unsure. 

I could live forever on being wanted lusted after and loved. But who lusts after the fat girl? The mom? The slug?

I’m run down. I feel worthless. I’m ruining my children’s lives. No one deserves to be treated poorly for what’s going on inside. I hate that they feel less than, because I can’t love myself. I wish I could do better. And improve my mental health. 

Do it for the future. Do it for him. Do it for them. Do it for anyone but me. Nothing motivates nothing. And nothing motivates me. 

I’d thank myself for starting a long journey today. But I’d rather rot and hate myself. It seems easier in some way.