1:23 AM

It’s one in the morning and I can’t stop thinking. I’m in the dark in my room, watching the faint light from the street filter through my window and slip between the curtains. The only light who accompanies me is the glow of my phone while I write this. I need something, but I don’t know what it is. I only know that I want it—that it’s a whim, and even so, I feel like I need it.

I’m not someone who desires much… or maybe I do. Maybe I just don’t understand what desire is. The truth is that I spend more time imagining things than actually living in reality. I'm not ashamed of it, but I notice how bad it makes me feel. Still, I prefer avoiding reality. Everything becomes more bearable when I start imagining other realities that—even though they clearly aren’t really happy ones (a reflection of my mental state)—at least give me some kind of comfort. Something that lets me imagine weird, messed-up things so I don’t feel the urge to destroy myself. It’s better, right? To imagine rather than actually do it.

But there’s something else. Something I feel in my chest, something that settles into my bones and gives me this awful feeling of unease and… comfort? It’s strange because it isn’t a pleasant feeling, and yet I find some kind of pleasure in it. There really is something wrong with me, isn’t it? Shit, Sometimes I creep myself out. I disgust myself. It’s hard to describe this feeling. I’m not a danger, and yet there’s something inside me that makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me.

<Lately I haven’t been able to find pleasure in anything, not even in the things that had been motivating me these past months. I feel like an empty shell, like something that was always broken. Everyone noticed it—I know they did. From the moment I was born I was already broken, already collapsed. There’s something about me that isn’t pleasant. My mom once said she would have preferred to have a “different kind of child,” saying that I was weird. I don’t understand. I genuinely can’t understand it. Everyone has called me weird my whole life, without a single exception. So I understand the rejection—the rejection from my own family, from my classmates, and now… from them too.

I don’t blame people. The truth is I didn’t exactly help myself either. Even so, I still can’t understand what that “thing” is that makes me different from everyone else. I know it’s there, and I’m not the only one who notices it, but I seem completely blind when it comes to pointing at it directly. I’ve asked people about it, and they can’t answer me either. I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything. I feel so desolate, and at the same time I feel like I deserve it. Maybe I’m more selfish than I allow myself to see. Maybe I’m worse than I’m capable of realizing. Maybe I’m just spoiled and don’t actually know real pain.

There was a time when I didn’t even feel human. I felt so rotten that I couldn’t even perceive myself as a person. Now I just feel weird. I’m not even sure what I’m trying to explain here, sitting in complete darkness, writing for no one but myself because I have no one to show my innermost thoughts. I could try—I could try to explain it again—but… it would probably be a waste of time. No one listens.