6/29/2021. I need to do something, make something. I've had that craving since I was a little kid. I guess the issue lies in actually having something to say. I believe at one point very recently I was bustling with ideas and thoughts and such a heavy internal dialogue that it would clog up almost every existing moment, successfully sabotaging the one chance I had at being a well rounded person. A full year spent practicing in that bathtub for one fucking purpose, and I choked. My social ineptity was something to behold. I was facing the last supposed days of life and it didn’t embolden me one tiny bit. Maybe I can attribute my botched attempt to a lack of commitment, maybe my heart wasn’t all in it. I do know I was dead set on an attempt, though, why else was I so anxious those last couple days? I was really at my limit. Something had to change. I never felt that kind of pain in my life, and I did such a good job at repressing it I can’t even properly recall the feeling. It’s all muted. I do know it was more than sadness. It was more than anything. Waking up every morning sent something indescribably through my veins. I’d grab my face and skin and wish I could rip it off, but I’d yet to discover self harm. I’m very thankful, honestly, that hurting myself wasn’t a concept to me until a bit after that point of life. I would’ve been walking scar tissue had I learned of it during those days. All I could do was wait for the feelings to pass, powerless, trapped in my own brain, trapped by my skin. My anxieties seem small when I reflect. I didn’t have responsibility. The only real issue was that standard brand of parental abuse. Maybe it was, and is worse than I can bring myself to admit. But shit was still eating at me, regardless of the reality. It all led to that moment in the tub. It’s completely washed over in my mind. All I really remember is staying in bed and watching shitty vine compilations over and over to deal with what the fuck I just did. But, it’s funny. You’d think my shitty, cowardly attempt would’ve been at the forefront of my mind those next few weeks. But no. Nothing. I couldn’t explore my mind the same way I used to. It was all gone. Five years later, and still nothing. I don’t think. I know something’s happening for me to be typing right now, for me to react to what people say and still feel emotion towards them but, I don’t actually know what it is. It’s all gone. I used to get into bed and daydream, get so lost in my fantasies that I couldn’t escape them. Now I just lay there. Waiting for sleep. I’m never comfortable. I don’t think I’ll ever feel comfortable. I’m performing. I have nothing to tell you.