Anxiety eats away at the soul even after you've tamed it. It still lingers and worms its way to the surface at arbitrary times.
Where anxiety lies it breeds envy. It breeds contempt, and a lack of self-worth.
However, there is indeed a silver lining. Where there is anxiety there are creative juices that flow freely and abundantly.
In me at least.
I can't help but feeling worthless though.
I feel like everything I write, have written and will write will never mean a damn thing to anybody.
Will I ever make an impact on people/the world/people I am close to?
I don't know. Things look awfully wretched as of right now. I feel bitter, pessimistic, you name it.
I feel dark.
I know I am weird and do peculiar things and say bizarre things, but I've embraced it all long ago.
I'm so fucking tired I didn't fall asleep till like 2 or later last night. I was all hyped up on Mountain Dew and Jolly Ranchers. I'm a moronic twit.
And this afternoon I've felt dreadfully depressed about That Friend Of Mine. Yes, my feelings are fading, noticeably. I don't have anxiety attacks anymore or vomit my guts out or panic. I am far more tamed, which I thank God for.
I am so proud of myself that most of the time I can talk to her about this guy she likes and be so chill, cool and supportive. He's a writer like me which is good and bad. I like that he's like me in this way---I could bond with him over this I suppose. However, of course I'm feeling highly competitive. Besides, I am insanely competitive with my writing anyway.
I believe in it so much, it's the one thing I'm fiercely passionate about in my life, that I KNOW I am superb in. I can't help but say I am incredibly curious to read something of his. I want to be better. I'm sure I am.
I should stop writing right now because I'm in such a wretched mood.
In spite of all my progress I am still terribly hurting. I feel as if I have no one to help myself than...well, myself. My therapist is fantastic though. Unfortunately I only see her once a week.
As she tells me all the time, "You feel extremely misunderstood with everyone you know." I can't help but concur with this statement. But I do, but I guess it shouldn't matter because I understand myself very well? I scored very high on a self-actualization test I took awhile back, as a matter of fact. I am highly intrapersonal.
But I mean my family can't even understand me worth a damn. But it's not like I'm that complex of a person whose dreadfully difficult to comprehend.
I'm just a big fucking joke. I wish I was taken more seriously. Do I need to take myself more seriously? I am an outrageous person, and thus rarely serious, yet that doesn't mean a damn thing.
All human beings are multidimensional. I cannot cope with being down in the dumps like this. It's not me. It feels more frequent than it actually is too. Thank God I have the outlet of my writing. But even that won't completely numb the pain. I just want to be numb. One can only take so much rejection and disappointment. I truly do not have much hope, but I am going to still be true to myself.
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