There's an emptiness at the end of things that won't let me go

1

It feels a little like I don't know much about what to do with my life.I have died hundreds times since I was born. And I have been dying a little more every day.Something empty wanders in here. 

23... No, 24 years old and I still can't understand myself. And I can't understand this gap I breathe every day when I wake up and wonder if I'm finally going to find out what it's missing, or what I'm missing.

I have some joys - strong, intense -, but when I'm alone, when all I have is me, I wonder if I'm happy.

It seems to me that I have nothing, because I have not achieved anything.Talking about it with someone the other day, they told me "you have so much!" and God! It's not possible that I'm the only one who doesn't see this. That only I can realize the size that what I still want to find has inside me. - Or, when I comment about this melancholy that haunts me, I always hear "you don't seem sad or depressed to me", but that obviously doesn't mean that I'm happy, or that I'm just dissatisfied with what I have.I've thought, of course, that this - me -, who I am, can be the result of the things I read, the music I listen to and the women I admire, but it can't be true. 

When I understood myself as someone in time and space I identified: I am a sad person. Tired, frustrated and always incomplete.

"It's an endless sadness that lasts all day and then goes on" - I said as I honestly answered for the first time in a long time the damn question "how are you?". One minute I'm smiling, the next I'm crying, crazy in the corners, desperate. I always live in search of something I don't know what it is. From a feeling I can't describe, from words I never learned to say. I resort to literature, my old texts and diaries, any cure, but I don't even know myself anymore and I don't even know if I'm capable of responding to what I'm hoping for... To what I want so much.I won't say "it all started when" because that emptiness has always existed. Sometimes I think there was something here. Something in that gap that was fragile and shattered in a drop in perspective that never took me back to where I came from. I really do not know. I really don't know me.What's left, I always thought, is knowing how to fight against me and having the strength to try to explain this mess like this, with the lyrics, even if it's necessary to invent words... I know that nothing would explain this melancholy that you can see well if you look at the bottom of the my brown eyes that the sun can turn green. Is there something in me that is stable? A single thing?I've also heard that this was a phase... That life at school could be bad, that in college, if I didn't learn to drink and go to parties - and I say I never learned - it could be worse.In college, I was the type who was part of a trio, which then became a double, then a group, and finally, loneliness. And I confess, with that last one I got along better. I had some surprises, many disappointments, and above all, I got to know myself a little and better understand my limits. How far would I go for friendships and how far would I go for myself, and I realized that I had more strength than I imagined most of the time. 

I learned the importance of self-love, I wouldn't have survived without it.

And it was all this college drama that taught me never to question or tamper with who I am by people I just think I know, because in the end I walk away from myself and get farther away from finally being able to answer all my questions. That is, those people didn't fill me either, in fact, with the first impact I felt sadder than usual and with time I realized that I preferred my own emptiness to the emptiness of others and I decided to accept myself.

"This emptiness will never disappear" - I feared. And I feared even more the idea that maybe that emptiness was me.There's more to wanting to reread the same stories, watch the same movies and write about that same emptiness every time I find space and time.This frustrates. It makes me cry and cry out for the emotional and psychological internal normality that the rest of the world seems to have - even though sometimes, in most of them, I think that the world, yes, the world has been lost.I will never learn to talk about it. About how I wake up suffocated in the middle of the night wanting to scream or cry knowing I'm missing something so much and I don't know what it is. Knowing that there's something out there that belongs to me that might never be mine. I hope it's that story. I hope it's to share this story. My history.

And I ask myself: how can I tell a story if I don't understand myself? How can I tell a story that has no end yet? And because of that, I confess, I thought about writing my end, in the book, and then making it happen in real life. That's because I want my whole story to make sense. Or maybe I tell myself this to escape the fear that this feeling of being alive brings.

Beeing alive and not having experienced a full feeling of completeness and, God, not having been able to overcome this emptiness, sadness, and melancholy. They say the most important thing is to survive... Well, I'm here.

I ask myself so many other things... But I know I've been looking for an answer that I won't find.The structure of the question changes sometimes, but it always wants to know the same thing... Why do I feel? Why do I feel this much? And then, I remember well, I looked for a psychologist to answer me. The answer was vague. 

The percentages showed one thing, but well... I know myself, it's not just that. I am another one. I went further, and the psychiatrist used the term "borderline". Made sense. It doesn't anymore. I'm not just that. I am a lot. I am so much! "I am, i am, i am".

Could it be?... I don't even know.What is my answer?Do I have to change the question?Do I have to stop asking?I must confess, I have a problem with endings. Consequently, I don't know how to deal with my past.There is an emptiness at the end of things that won't let me go...And this emptiness is what I want to write about.