I’d ask myself, “What is wrong with you?" And I wished I could say, "Nothing is wrong." But I knew better.
“I remember wanting to go to sleep and never wake up. I felt as though my internal world and external world were two completely different places.”
I think, for many people, the hardest part of living, much like writing, is the criticism that comes with it.
Why did I share that? Do I just want validation? If so, from who? And why?
I felt nothing, mostly. And when I did feel, it wasn't sadness. It was terror.
I could feel myself beginning to slip; if this went on much longer, I was going to lose everything, quite literally.