It feels so deeply satisfying to spiral deeper into despair. I feel strong knowing I can take the pain—carry it, let it seep into every corner of myself until there's nothing left untouched by it. It's a power, almost, to know I can amplify it, make it my own creation. I feel empowered when I make myself feel worse, by stealing, by lying, by leaning into the dirt of society, becoming the thing that no one wants to see. The shame is a burden—but at the same time it's a confirmation and I know it's where I belong. I am, what they hate. And there's freedom in that.
The world feels alien, shifted out of focus, and I don't belong to it—I never did. I still feel the rejection everytime, but it feels also so good because it's just a truth. And in that truth, in the way loneliness settles into me like a familiar guest, there's a purity, an intensive form of beauty. The loneliness is so pure, like the clearest glass, and it cuts the same way. It's the realest thing I've ever felt. In its clarity, I find a haunting perfection. I am the only one to hear my own cries in the void. There's no dissembling no dilution.
It feels good to feel bad because it's mine. The panic attack, the humiliation, the shaky breaths that seize my chest and leave me stranded in a body that refuses to obey—they're mine. They're proof that I can feel something, even if that something makes me wish I felt nothing at all. The desperation, the choking fear, the helplessness—they're all pieces of me. I own these. I own the way they leave me gasping, trembling, ashamed. And in that ownership, there's a sense of control.
Each self-inflicted wound, every thought I direct at myself, is a way to reclaim the narrative. Every time I participate in letting myself sink deeper, I am not just enduring—I'm deciding. And so I degrade myself. I take the fear, the failure, the loneliness, and I turn them into weapons aimed squarely at myself. It's deliberate. It's mine and I know it's what I deserve.
There's a comfort in knowing I've reduced my pain to something tangible, something I can touch and control. In a life where everything feels unmoored, where I feel untethered, misery feels like an anchor. It keeps me grounded, connected to something.
When I feel neutral, or when I feel some flicker of joy, it sometimes feels like betrayal. It reminds me of what I've lost, of what I once had, or thought I could have. Those moments of lightness make the fall back into the void even sharper. The contrast is unbearable, and it only drives me deeper. I miss the ache when it's gone, miss the clarity it brings. Without it, I feel adrift.
It's not peace. It's not joy. But it's familiar, and familiarity feels like belonging. And belonging—even if it's in the cold arms of despair itself—feels like being held.
