Dear Diary,

3.

Dear Diary,

I think I'm not okay. Did I already say that before?

I'm comparing my life to that of a leaflet paper; I'm tearing it apart because why should it be one whole while I'm broken into so many bits and pieces?

I'm separating the torn pieces of paper because even when they are broken and torn, they are beside each other, helping each other as I have no one to make me smile, make me laugh, make me want to live.

I'm always having inner battles and wars between the side of me that brings me down and the side that tries to pick me up, and lately, I don't even want to be picked up anymore, I don't want anyone to help me. Is this the end? Is the rest of my life, what I live of it anyway, gonna be like this?

I know for a fact that I love my sleep, but even that left me. I've been trying to sleep a full night without waking up but it's impossible. I'm afraid of what I would see behind those closed eyelids. Would I remember my childhood friend that left me? Would I have to see those eyes? Dark and sinister? They never leave me alone.

I'm afraid to wear my glasses now, I think I like it better when I don't see well, because then I can tell myself that whatever I'm seeing in my life that is disappointing me is just a figment of my imagination.

Sometimes when I tell myself things over and over again, they become the truth; and I'd rather live in my truth than any other.

Yours,
Quinn