It seems that January is a bad month, eternally. And whilst there is alway February, March, April… all of which will follow, there is always the knowing that there’s another January coming around, and another point to look at myself and realise that, no, there’s been no change.
Thing is, people may not agree. There has been material change, yes. But beyond that I am the same. I can’t say I feel much different now to when I was ten or eleven years old, and that, beyond however I asesthetically or socially evolve, I am still, at my core, lonely and empty and completely despising my whole being. I detest every fucking inch of myself. Every utterance, action. What I a catch a glimpse of myself, I flounder to keep myself going. And how can it be that I can be like this for over a decade? Every year that passes it gets more consuming. Possibly because every year, every milestone, makes it slightly more cemented. Whatever I attempt to do, I understand that I will never beat this. I understand that no one will ever find me beautiful. Or enjoy that much of my company. I know that I will never really be loved beyond the grasp of my deepest genetic ties. And for how much longer is that enough? That someone cares for me simply because I am their DNA. I don’t know. It’s been enough,mostly, to keep me going until now. But I don’t know. I’m tired of this. There’s only so much that you can be reminded about exactly whaqt you’re worth and block it out.