I remember the first time I was called fat. I remember the first time I was bullied. I remember the first time I felt betrayed. I remember the first time I felt like nothing more than an object. I remember the first time I hated myself. I remember because these events will never leave my mind. Like a deep cut into the skin, the memories leave scars in my mind.

 

I blame my medicine. I don't want to admit that I've been depressed for a year. It makes me weak, pathetic. There are people out there who suffer worse than I do. I have no right to be depressed, but I am. I hate it. It makes me weak.

 

Loneliness. It's an enigma to me. I appreciate solitude; I'm socially awkward, an introvert. But I hate solitude. I feel alone in my own mind. It's bleak. The thoughts in the deepest crevasses of my mind I trust with no one. Not my family, not my friends. I think they'll just ridicule me, belittle my thoughts. They've done it before, why should it prove any different?

 

I do not like myself. I hate the fact that I don't like myself, yet I can't change my opinion of myself. I lack the confidence to hold my head up high in public and in private. I think I'm subpar to everyone else. I'm not good enough. I'm terrified I annoy those closest to me. I depend on them too much, I know it annoys them. I'm care too much about what others think, I'm prudish; they're all lively and confident. I bring them down, they don't like it, I know that. I'm fat, I'm awkward, my complexion , I complain too much, I'm cynical, I don't fully fit in. I'm always a second option or lower.

 

Sometimes, mostly lately, I think about staying my bed. Staying asleep. Not waking up. My dreams are so much better then reality. They hurt less. There's no stress. I don't hate myself. I don't feel useless.

 

I want cry, and to scream, and to relieve this oppressive pressure in my chest. I can't, I don't know how. I feel weak and stupid.

 

I don't feel motivated anymore. There's barely any motivation to do anything; to study, to get a job, to write, to watch TV, to exercise, to read, sometimes I don't want to eat. Maybe then I'll be skinner, but I know that's unhealthy (plus I like food, even in my dreams).

 

I don't plan on giving up. Because then I really will be weak. I'll be selfish. I'll have a real reason to hate myself. I always hear that it gets better. So I'll wait it out. I'll wait for it to get better. I'll keep waking up. I'll wait for my bad habits to change. I'll wait for inspiration and motivation to strike. I'll wait for my dreams to become reality.

 

That's all I can do.