Dear, My Diary

So, this is the intro then

I suppose that it's quite obvious what this is. This is my true, 100% honest diary. The word diary is used lightly. It's more like... A blog. About my troubles. 

Because they say that it's good to let out your emotions. They say, "Hey, write what you feel, it'll help." But when I write fiction, the point is to avoid what I feel. The entire purpose of my desire to write and write and write is actually pretty dumb. It's one of those reasons that make you kind of confused. One of the feelings I've had that have made me question my sanity, or wonder if I might be a sociopath after all.

Sometimes, well, all the time, I question myself. I guess it's the anxiety, or the depression, but they don't feel real yet. The feelings I get match the definitions of those words, but I feel fake using them. Like it's "self-diagnosing." And, honestly, it is. I'm too socially scared to ask for help. I'm too socially scared to admit to the people who can get me help that I need help, or that I need affection, or that I cry a lot more than necessary and rely too much on others.

I've got this vanity issue. I love the way I look. I love the way my face is shaped, because it isn't perfect, because it's unique to me. I love my body, even though it's a little squishy in some places. I'm not everything I should be, but I'm everything I am, and I look okay. I hate all the other aspects of myself. I hate my laugh. I hate my  emotions. I hate, above everything, my personality. People tell me I'm so wonderful, I'm so good to them and kind and helpful but I do it all with this feeling inside of me that I'm just not right, I don't think like they do. I'm desperate because all I want is to fit in and to not be angry and sad and scared and everything all at once. 

But somehow, I'm also nothing. My extreme emotions create void. I feel so much that I don't. I get denied a place in a summer camp, or get denied a role in a play, or lose a writing contest, and I'm broken. People can't break me, but I break myself. Oh, how many kinds of broken I am.

I'm not a good writer. I'm not a good actor. I'm not a good person. I'm not a good anything. I'm only good at being nothing.

But that's not what the people I care about say.

"We had so much fun today because of you."

"You're so nice."

"That was a really good story, can I read another?"

"I'm so happy you're here, you're my role model!"

"You really helped me out there."

"I love you."

I just wish I could believe these things about myself.

So here's an example of what this book will be. Basically, me crying while typing and then joking about it. Trying not to wallow too hard in the pit that is me. So, I really hope to any and all divine being(s) above that you can't relate to this book, because if you can, you really have it rough.

4/14/2016