I’m almost getting to the point where I enjoy failure. It’s like hating myself is the only thing I can bring myself to expend any real energy on. And I don’t even mean ‘actual’ failure. I don’t do my best and just not make it. I simply fail to do my best at any point.
That last point wasn’t fair. Sometimes I do my very best. It’ll last for weeks, months, days or hours. I always run circles around everyone in my vicinity and laugh at their productivity. Then I’m on my couch for four hours cramming my face with whatever junk I can find and playing some ‘safe place’ game that I’ve beaten thirty or forty fucking times.
Have you ever made yourself sick? Like, just looked at yourself in the mirror and realized that you’re letting yourself and everyone around you down. I’ve gained fifty pounds since I turned twenty-one. It’s not all that much on my frame, but I feel miserable and I feel like I look miserable. It’s all the fucking same.
I’ve started sleeping. Even in my low points I’ve always maintained my five to seven hours. Last night I got ten. Wasn’t even trying. I hate every part of myself that thinks these things are okay. I need to turn the alarm that sound like an A-Bomb alert.
I think part of my problem is that I think something outside of me can fix me. I need to fucking change and I don’t have a clue how to do it. Guess I’ll just write about that shit on the internet.