The more I think about living the more I don’t want to.
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2020 is the year I nearly bled to death on my living room floor, and the longer this year (life) lasts the more I wish I had.
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I wish my work allowed me the time I needed to heal from my trauma. It’s either starve or heal.
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I am so heavy and so tired.
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How do I explain to people, I’m not avoiding them because I don’t want to see them... I’m avoiding them because I’m convinced they don’t want to see me.
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I will leave nothing when I die but a trail of incomplete thoughts.
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Last night I stayed up for hours compulsively picking a hole in my cheek.
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Nothing makes me hate myself more than scrolling through my Facebook feed. And I can't stop.
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Realizing I stopped being friends with someone because they garnered more attention than I did in public.
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Me: don't talk to me. Also me: please someone, anyone, talk to me.
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I hate that I love attention.
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I'm missing large chunks of my memory, but I can't help but think it's better than remembering.
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I don't have the patience or faculties to deal with people who hate themselves as much I hate me.
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By the time I figure out what I want, it will be too late.
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Everyone I meet will tire of me eventually.
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I am competent at many things, but I will never be amazing at anything.
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