I feel like I’m losing grip on who I am. Every day I feel like I’m falling deeper into a blackness that will soon become all-consuming. I’m so frightened. I can’t see a light at the end of this tunnel, and I’m terrified that there isn’t one. What if I’m like this forever? What if it never gets any easier? Who am I, besides anxious and depressed? I don’t know if I am anything. I am completely defined by my mental illness. I’m a mess.
I have so much anger in me. I’m growing resentful of everyone and everything. I’m pushing people away. I’m isolating myself. I’m getting more and more insecure. I’m getting more pessimistic. I’m becoming a hollowed out shell of a human being, a shadow of what I once was, an empty, soulless husk of a person. I don’t have any sense of identity anymore. I don’t recognise myself in my reflection. All I see is a tired, grey face that somehow has aged without me realising it. It’s grown weathered and beaten by day after day of stress. It’s the face of someone who’s always afraid. It’s the face of insecurity.
I can’t remember life without anxiety or depression. I’m struggling to believe it ever existed. I feel that this cruel, cold life is the one I must always have led. Anything that suggests otherwise, any photographs or journal entries that detail a happier time, they’re all from someone else’s life, not mine. A girl who is a world away from what I am now. A stranger. She’s dead to me, and I don’t think there’s any piece of her left. I don’t think she’s ever coming back. I miss her.
I see nothing behind me and around me and in front of me but relentless, crippling, agonising darkness. I see nothing but anxiety. I see nothing but depression. Mental illness has become my everything and there is no hope left.