vacua est

it’s just. it never occurred to me that i would still be sick. like when i pictured this—this dream of mine—for some reason, i just figured everything would be solved. like when i finally found my person, when i finally had my life together, everything else would just, i don’t know, fall into place with it. but that’s not how things work, is it? because here i am, with everything i’ve ever wanted, everything i prayed for—to gods i don’t even believe in—and i’m still just… god. how fucking childish. 

You want to know what I really want? What I actually want. 
          
          It’s a do-over. 

It’s easier to be sick sometimes. And I hate that. 

you are sick enough. and you deserve recovery.

a reminder that no one ever feels sick enough to go in recovery. 

your guilt is showing. 

when will i accept that this is all i am. 

would you like to know the truth? you look at me and you see some broken attention seeking wh*re but the truth is that i have always tried to be anything other than that. I just wanted to be liked. to a good person and yet somehow fit in with everyone’s expectations. and it didn’t work and I failed miserably. but none of you know. how hard i’ve worked to be different. how hard I’ve worked to escape. no one ever believes me and it’s beginning to make me doubt too. 

a reinvent? Or a rediscovery? 
          

Can I admit now that I lied? I lied through all of it. In every word I wrote. Because I wanted so badly for it to be true. For you to mean everything you said. For you to be as gentle as I pretended you were. For every little detail to not be so meticulously crafted to deceive me. But it wasn’t. You are a monster that ripped me in two and my lies did not save me from that.
          
          I hate you. I hope you know that. And I hope you suffer under the weight of it for the rest of your life.