Dear Diary,
I'm back at it again. Just when I feel on top of the world, a rug is pulled from beneath me. I try and try and try to do the right thing, the Godly thing, but there is a thorn in my side that just won't quit. I'm back to the stressed-out, freaked-out girl that I once was and seem to forever be. Tonight, I raise that cursed bottle to my lips for all the stressed-out, freaked-out girls because they know the pains of living with a constant thorn in your side.
You'd think after all this time, I would learn to stay away from this road. You would think I'd learn this dark and painful road always leads to a dead end, yet I keep returning. I fake the same smile, tell the same lie, and push a dagger deeper into my soul. Tonight, I raise yet another bottle (I've lost track of how many now) to all the stressed-out, freaked-out girls because they know the dangerous road I walk that dead ends in despair.
It's ironic how I grow up confident and self-assured, but once I confront the world, I crumble with every self-doubt the world injects in me. Am I strong? Am I smart? Am I beautiful? Am I enough? Most importantly, am I wanted? Is there someone out there in this merciless world who wants me, who loves me? I scream these questions out in the night with no answer; the fears leave me hopeless inside. Tears stream down my face because in this one rare moment I am vulnerable. I usually guard my feelings because to me and to the world feelings are a symbol of weakness, yet I can't hold it any longer. Unfortunately, the world takes advantage of my vulnerability and agonizes me. This heartless world takes people like me and stretches them until they are worn thin; then it tortures us by the brutality of those who belong in this world. Those people try to make us stressed-out, freaked-out girls feel insecure, inferior, and insignificant. We attempt to shine our light through the pain, but their laughs quickly blow it out, leaving a darkness as thick as a coat to slowly suffocate us. Tonight as I lie on the floor, slowly falling into the unconscious abyss, I raise my eyes towards the ceiling for all the stressed-out, freaked-out girls who know the fear and the want of death compared to the pain of life.
Black. Pitch black. All I see, all I feel, and all I know is covered in blackness. The world's blackness. I don't know if I'm standing or sitting, alive or dead, but suddenly a soft noise sounds from what seems like worlds away from me. I move toward where I think that noise is coming from. The noise grows louder and turns into a soft whisper. I can feel the darkness pull me away from the whisper, but I continue. As I move closer, I can make out the voice whispering one word repeatedly. Now, I feel the darkness gnaw at my skin and burn me with its touch in an attempt to drown out the noise. Miraculously, I ignore the distractions and press on. Suddenly I hear it. I am close enough to comprehend what the whisper says. The whisper says my name. Not firmly but as if to speak life into it. Then the darkness quickly surrounds me, and I am captivated by it once more.
I awake. I'm back here again lying on the floor with countless bottles laying around me. Before I can understand what happened, the world bombards me with its lies, self-doubt, and thoughts of self-destruction, yet through the deceit I remember the voice. I don't know who it belongs to, but I remember it. Somehow someway the voice knows my name. The voice knows me. When the world tells me I am nothing, the voice knows me. When the world tells me that I am nobody, the voice speaks my name. Tonight, I raise my spirit (God knows I can't physically stand because of the amount of alcohol I've consumed). I raise my spirit for all the moments I was and will be a stressed-out, freaked-out girl because I now know there is a voice that knows my name. I am someone, and someone knows me.
Sincerely,
A Stressed-out Girl
