I'm mourning something.

Somewhere, along the way this year, I lost myself. I soured. My body is dying from these diseases I hold closer to my chest than people. I'm numb, inside and out, and when the world isn't shaking in glorious technicolour around me, I'm trying to deal with all this guilt I have for being a total fuck up. I used to be so, so happy, and I didn't even realize it. I'm mourning something - myself, back when I used to be able to cry. Now I sneak my Dad's prozac pills and try and convince myself I'm happy. Now I weigh myself on the scales and scoff when they say I'm lighter than I look. Now I acquaint myself with pain on purpose, just to have the assurance that I can do better. Now I can't sleep each night, and all I'm living for is my sweet little brother who curls into my side like nothing else is alive. I only feel the ugliest of emotions now - despair and fear, and only in the lightest of strains.

I wish I could be happy for you guys, or interesting, but all I am is a stereotype, only instead of self-pity, all I feel is bitter self-hatred.