Hello, everyone. The following is a journal entry I wrote that I wanted to share with the internet somewhere appropriate. Maybe some of you can relate to these feelings:

Again last night I had dreams of a life of fantasy. The sort I also have during the day. Where my flaws and deficiencies are lesser and the people I admire also think the world of me. A world where the mistakes I make are of small consequence, and my negligence does not at times hold me responsible for the hurt feelings or jealousy of others. This illusion is a world of love that I find strangely absent when I open my eyes.

I wish I could shed myself of the fears and insecurities that lead me to my compulsively self sabotaging behavior. My brother once told me that I seemed to make things more difficult for myself intentionally, and I know it to be true. Life is a struggle, I feel, and I cannot abide a day at absolute rest. While others seem to bask in comforts, I find worth in my ability to survive discomfort (albeit poorly).

I used to write about how different I was, and how I failed to understand how others could be so shallow or judge so harshly. Hypocritical, at best. Now I see I was also equally critical of the foolishness of others, as though I was in some way above it. Even if I had thoughts of anger, I used to be humble in mannerism if a bit nervous. Now I am haughty and distant, and I'm falling apart at the seams.

My true personality has become largely sheltered in defense of the ridicule of others. I deny myself my quirks and truly the moments that define me. I numb pain and find only small consolation. I act like a child to hide from the world that brings me misery. Maybe I can begin to undo this negative change, and still keep some fragment of what I've learned.

It is uncomfortable to me that I'm not inherently normal, the way our culture defines it. The way some people stare in disgust at things they don't understand. I have my doubts about finding people who can match me at this perspective, even while I try and occasionally fail to find things to appreciate about those very ones with whom I feel myself at a disconnect.

I have starved myself of emotion to the best of my ability. Of pain and pleasure alike, and of the experiences that make me human. My anxiety is profound. I can't begin to count opportunities I've missed to be closer to someone I wanted near me, but I fumble at every turn. Despite compliments and reassurance I struggle endlessly. Against harsh advice I flail in woe or laugh in derision and dig my hole deeper still.

Perhaps someday I will have achieved a level of wisdom that allows me to relax into that world of love again. Until then, I must remain strong and forgiving of my chronic failures. The universe may yet have something surprising to offer me, and it would be an absolute act of contempt to deny it the opportunity to prove my doubts fallible.