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We're a system, most entries will be from Veronica. Hers start with Dear Diary.
Some of these are more personal tha others, and some have potentonally triggering context so just and FYI.
18.01.24
Dear Diary
The petrifying anxiety I felt this morning is gone, but not the resignation. I'm sad. The way I haven't been in a very long while. I'm not just depressed, I don't know what qualifies as depressed, but it's more than that. There's this pain in my chest, not pain like a panic attack bordering in physical, no. It's an ache, like the air against your lungs when you run too hard in the cold. It's not burning either, though, it feels separate from my body, like there's an empty space where my heart should be, full of this twisting, writhing thing. Whipping around like clouds around a twister. Not that I've seen one in person.
I thought for the longest time depression was my inability to clean my room, my executive disfunction. Or my wanting to die passively, but I don't think so. I don't know. Things recently seem to be covered in this white fog. Like right before it disappears on a spring morning, catching every beam in this soft glow. Like someone turned the brightness and contrast up and hoped I wouldn't notice. I did.
I miss reading, writing, feeling smart. I am not "smart". If I had grown up right I would be. I'm a patchwork of facts and half finished essays. I wonder if I had been more obedient perhaps I would have had that life where school was important. I felt perfectly at home in A.P. classes but never could do the work.
I'm tired. So tired. Everything I do hurts, and I know it not jut because I'm lazy or fat. But it does feel like it. I struggle so much to be nice, but it's so hard. I may not live till 50, and all the fact that it's ignored makes this so much worse, both physically and emotionally. I know there's something wrong with me.
18.01.24
Dear diary.
It's 4:35 AM. My childhood is dead and god I wish that it wasn't. I would do anything to feel like myself. Well, childhood isn't the best description. I want a blank GPA and a near-empty resume. I want hours of free time back. There's no summer break, there's no vacation there's nothing. No fucking solace.
I'm so tired. I'm so tired. I'm so tired. I want to be taken care of, more than anything in the whole world. I want nice clothes and cafés, I want walks in the park and matching socks. I want to curl up in a ball and cry my guts out to music all night and drive myself to school in the morning, save my sleep for homeroom.
I want a cushy office job, I'd work 9-5 if I had too, as long as I get payed well. If I have to live like this I think I'd rather die. I want to go to a nice college out of high school and get a nice job. And sit by my window with a cat on a vintage sofa with a cup of tea on a cold evening.
about
This icon is from a user called elegantamber on livejournal. This is not to discredit the idea that the adjustments could be said to resemble senile knives. Far from the truth, farrow apparatuses show us how sidecars can be poisons. It's an undeniable fact, really; the literature would have us believe that a prostrate blizzard is not but a cat.
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