Life is great. I’m financially stable, blessed with a loving family, and get a relatively upper-end education. I shouldn’t be feeling the way I do. Things are great. Things have always been great. No, maybe more than great. Perfect. I’ve always been told of how perfect my life is and yet somehow, despite living that perfect life everyone tells me I’m living, the only imperfect thing about it is me. I’m ungrateful. Absolutely. I refuse to deny that. My family tells me that all the time. They worry of me. They say I’m like drift wood nowadays. That I’ve changed. That I’m not the same anymore. I don’t feel happiness anymore. I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t. I end up following this cycle of self-hatred because of this. I hate myself because I can’t enjoy anything. And I can’t enjoy anything because I hate myself. I’ve thought of ending it. I’ve thought of doing it for the people around me, so they’d be free of this mess of a person, this ungrateful bitch that leeches off of them. I’ve thought of doing it for my mom. I’ve thought of doing it so she could find a better daughter and forget I even existed. I wish that upon everyone. But you know the stupid part? I’m afraid to die. I don’t wanna die. I wish I could kill myself without being afraid. I love my life but I also know that I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve anything, or anyone. I can’t live on like this, in this perpetual self-hate, perpetual ungratefulness, perpetual want to kill myself but perpetually being too afraid to do so.

I wish I was the same again.
One day, I wanna wake up and be the person I used to be, even if that isn’t me anymore.