This is an attempt to purge whatever is making me feel so sick today. I feel like my minds got food poisoning and the only way to feel better is to rid myself of everything inside.

I had no positive thoughts, no good insights into my state of mind. So in this state where I feel as vulnerable as a child then maybe I can only express myself like one. But there’s nothing wrong with being crude, simplistic.

I’m sad. I’m angry. I’m tried. I’m lonely. I’m afraid.

My heart feels like a butterfly with broken wings, and every so often it flutters and tries to fly again. I messed up lunch, burnt it to a crisp and I got in trouble. I don’t think it’s fair. It wasn’t all my fault. In fact, I didn’t even know it was my responsibility to make sure it didn’t burn. But I still feel bad, guilty and frightened like I’ll never be forgiven. And it’s something so small and stupid and it’s gone but I want to crawl into a hole and hide for the rest of my life.

I keep running into the same problem. This problem of not being enough. Not being what others need me to be. I try my best, I say “tell me what you need and I’ll do it.” But no one tells me and I fall short over and over again. It breaks my heart to fall short like that. Maybe it’s just the way I was raised. The trauma passed down from generation to generation. But if I’m not of use then I am nothing.

If I can’t make the people around me happy or fulfill their needs then I have no reason to be here at all. And soon they’ll see that and hate me.

I know that’s not right. That’s not how people work, at least my people. They aren’t cruel, but my mind and my heart are. They tell me those are the stone cold facts and there’s no turning back. They tell me I can’t afford to make a small mistake. That every misstep stains me and makes me dirty, unworthy in the eyes of others.

I don’t think my medication is working like it was. I hadn’t cried or had an anxiety attack over something this apparently small in a couple months. I made lunch again and groveled and cleaned the kitchen and the dining room and groveled some more. But it doesn’t feel like enough. I felt shunned. When I was done I ran away because I couldn’t stand rejection, not even if only perceived. The door to my room was hardly closed before I broke into tears again.

I wish I knew where it comes from, this certainty that mistakes are the death of love. That forgiveness isn’t on the table for me.

A frustrated word feels like a punch in the gut. It stops my heart. Opens a faucet behind my eyes that I have no control over. I would rather get actually hit than to be rejected.

I’m writing in an effort to get a hold of myself. To realize that I’m alright. But I’m paralyzed by fear, of what I don’t know, and I don’t dare leave my room. I can’t bear it.

I’m yearning for something I don’t want to voice but I don’t know if keeping it inside makes it worse. I’m yearning to die again. I’m yearning for it all to just be over.