nvll
New Member
- Feb 4, 2023
- 2
I've been an escapist ever since I was little, and I've certainly maintained it into adulthood. I'm always daydreaming about some imaginary people, some fantasy world. It's great when I have a burst of creativity and make something I kind of like, but with every passing day it makes me realize how lackluster and bitter reality is. I can get by and get things done, but I'm always somewhere else, up in my head. The highlight of my day is going to bed and sinking into oblivion; when I wake up the next morning, though, invariably some part of me shrivels up inside.
I feel abnormal. Inhuman. It's hard to make new friends and connect with people, the winter has been hard on my repressed trauma (lost a parent at an early age, not to mention a whole lot of other bad memories that resurface nearly daily), and I keep taking on too many responsibilities to unsuccessfully alleviate my gifted kid burnout. Everything seems to chafe. I can feel happy, but only in small, usually fiction-induced amounts, and the last time I was freely happy was probably August 2021. I'm working hard because it helps me not think, but now I'm starting to resent some people that aren't giving back the effort I'm giving them.
I want to die. And if I don't succeed in this life I never asked for—if it doesn't get better, I should die. I completed a novella that could more or less be my suicide note. But I'm not in the position to act on anything now, and I have already tried to make things better (my therapist is nice, I just think my mind is determined to self-destruct), but I'm feeling worse.
I feel abnormal. Inhuman. It's hard to make new friends and connect with people, the winter has been hard on my repressed trauma (lost a parent at an early age, not to mention a whole lot of other bad memories that resurface nearly daily), and I keep taking on too many responsibilities to unsuccessfully alleviate my gifted kid burnout. Everything seems to chafe. I can feel happy, but only in small, usually fiction-induced amounts, and the last time I was freely happy was probably August 2021. I'm working hard because it helps me not think, but now I'm starting to resent some people that aren't giving back the effort I'm giving them.
I want to die. And if I don't succeed in this life I never asked for—if it doesn't get better, I should die. I completed a novella that could more or less be my suicide note. But I'm not in the position to act on anything now, and I have already tried to make things better (my therapist is nice, I just think my mind is determined to self-destruct), but I'm feeling worse.