Sometimes you think you’re better. Sometimes you think you’re recovered. And sometimes you even begin to believe that you might be happy. But then it all comes back. Every negative feeling that has ever touched a part of you grows to make up your entire being. You remember everything, not in the way it happened, but in the way that you felt it. Things clarify, and you’re not in that happy haze anymore, you know now. You’ll never be happy. You can have people and hobbies to distract you and to express yourself, but you’ll find that that the only thing you’re capable of expressing is unhappiness. You wonder why. You think: if I’m so happy why is such deep, depressing emotion coming out of me. You write it off as you emptying it out of yourself to have a clean start. But then later you know. Later you realize that it is all that you are. And realize that you keep writing and painting because this shit is constantly building. Its accumulating and the only reason you think you’re happy is because it hasn’t been able to build enough for you to have a breakdown. But then one day you do. It’s not that it built up enough to this time, but that you’ve been alone for the 5 minutes it takes to look inward for once. You realize there’s this hollow shell that you try to drain because all that can ever fill it is sadness and self-hatred and every other awful feeling in existence. Every happy emotion you felt now feels like an insincere attempt, it’s not that you were actually happy, but that you wanted to be. You were faking it because it was easier and that’s exactly the kind of thing you’d do. Take the easy way out like always. Whether its science, or swimming, or life in general. All you do is take the easy way out and now the only real thing that is left, that is so in character with who you think you know you are, is suicide. But you can’t. You’re too cowardly, too hopelessly hopeful. Or think maybe winning an award, or getting accepted into a college, or for once being accepted by a person could just possibly make you happy enough to carry on with your life. So you write a small paragraph, that you’re a little proud of, and decide to press save on the 32-page document where you go to have the same crises over and over again. Then you close the computer and see that she replied, the message just never showed up in your notifications. You feel better and blame what just happened on too little sleep or too much coffee, and move on, like you always do.
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