Sometimes I miss the me I was.
It’s not that the old me was anything special, but she was something more than this. She was funny… kind of smart, a snappy dresser. She still had a little confidence. Even while planning her suicide, there was still a rough strip, defiant, waiting for a match to rub up against it. Waiting to ignite something.
But now, I just wait for the next time I can distract myself from my thoughts. I conjure sleep and daydreams. I don’t want to be alone with me.
My head feels numb and slow. I want to make connections, I want to tell stories, create… But I can’t. When someone talks to me it takes all of my concentration to follow their words. I don’t know how to respond, and I hold onto my thoughts, afraid to hear myself distorted and wrong. I don’t think I have anything left to give the world — but it’s not because I am spent, it’s just evaporation.
I don’t know how to get back to me. I don’t know if I was even real.