Don't read or read into this.

I feel like dying.

I really just wanted to write those words down because they won't get out of my head.  And the more I think about them without writing them down, the worse I feel.  I feel bad for feeling that way.  Bad for not expressing myself.  Just bad, bad, bad.

Sometimes I feel like making this journal private, but nobody reads it, so it doesn't matter.  I wish people who didn't know me read it.  I wish I could reach out in the darkness and connect to random strangers.  I'm so afraid of people judging me, of the people I know finding out how I really feel, how weak I really am.  I'm afraid of people getting tired of my whining.

When did I become so self-conscious?

I'm so frustrated and stressed.  My writing is awful.  Seriously, it's so terrible I don't even want to take a look at it.  I haven't even made it past page 5, and I would rather chop off fingers than try to type any more.  It doesn't make sense, I don't even know what I'm trying to say with the story anymore.

I feel like I've fucked myself over so bad that I won't be able to come back.  I'm starting to have a panic attack, but in slow-motion.  Suffocating week by week.

I didn't go to lecture tonight so that I could write.  Instead I made chicken fajitas, sat in front of the computer for a few hours and have about a page and a half to show for it.

I WANT TO PUT A GUN IN MY MOUTH AND END THIS.

Why does typing that make me feel better?  It shouldn't.  It should make me feel worse.  It does, but in a different way.

I'm so tired of feeling this...