Some days when I have -- or don't have -- time to brood, I think about all the things that have gotten me to where I am today. Some days I smile, looking at old yearbooks and tracing the letters written to me by good friends.

Then I look up and remember that I haven't spoken to a large number of these people in years. I met people I don't regret meeting. Unfortunately, as soon as school stopped being an excuse for us to see each other five times a week for several hours, a lot of us just weren't that invested in keeping regular contact. Some of us remain friends, but when do we reach out to one another? Thank you so much for taking the time to wish me a happy birthday, but I'm a little sad that those are the only excuses we are able to use to remind each other that we're still Facebook friends. We live distant lives now. The ones most important to me were the first to stop talking to me once we graduated from high school. Our promises to be best friends forever written in graphite fade a little more each time I shut the yearbooks again. I keep forgetting how quickly the temperature drops when I break out of my suspension of disbelief.

Most days, I want to find everyone who uttered the phrase "High school's gonna be the best four years of your life!" because they're full of shit. I took a backseat to most of the drama that went on around me for the better part of those years, but that doesn't mean I wasn't ever involved in silly angst. Fights with friends rarely lasted long. I was bad at staying angry at others, but I've always been good at internalizing those strong emotions and letting them fester within me. My friends knew this about me. Sometimes I wonder if that's one of the reasons I'm almost alone. A few friends have been able to stand the test of time. I'd die for them. And the others that I'd sworn my life to, that I'd probably have even killed for, are gone. I can't feel anger anymore, though. I'm indifferent towards one. I harbor no hard feelings for the other one.

Then I think about how my foolishly sentimental self would give anything to go back and spend a careless week in high school with the two of them, when we thought those days would last forever. The walls of my room are pretty shades of blue and purple, but they get a little more grey each morning when I wake up with the bitter taste of reminiscence on my tongue.

Very few times have I woken up looking forward to my day. Anxiety bubbles in my stomach like an angry witch's brew. Scratchy fear in my arms. Burning resentment in my throat. Icy numbness. Gritty dysphoria. Bad. Not good. Awful. Gross. I claw at my skin constantly to try to relieve the unpleasant climate within my body. I spend money irresponsibly in failed attempts to satiate the thirst within me for self-validation.

Then I think about the few times I have woken up feeling warm and tingly and happy inside and out, and how those feelings never last. At some point I began associating feelings of delighted anticipation with the storms of terror and disappointment and rage that never fail to follow. I loathe to wake up with hopes for my day. I'm still not sure whether the cold that grips my extremities every morning is from my energy leaking from some puncture in my spirit that I've yet to patch, or just a sign that I probably kicked off one of my blankets overnight again.

Every night, I sit on the edge of my bed and reflect. I take notes on what emotions I felt that day. There's a growing trend of emotions that carry negative connotations to them. I'll take feeling upset over not feeling at all most days. Being unable to give words to the lack of emotions in one's chest is somewhat unsettling.

Then I think about the endless dreary nights when not even an unhealthy dosage of Benadryl is able to put me out of my misery. The sharp, searing pain and trickling warmth that usually carries me into an uneasy slumber only leaves me physically aching, while the turbulence in my core will not let me drift into a state of rest. At times like these, I want nothing more than to be able to mute all the bad and scary thoughts reverberating through my skull and chest and to let white noise drag me into a dreamless sleep.

Every day, I like to tell myself that I'm overreacting. That everything's not as bad as it seems. That some day I'll be as jovial and loved and cared for as I was back in high school. I'm clearing away the clutter and trying to turn over a new leaf. I'm going to do everything in my power to be the person I want to be, inside and out.

Then I think about how I'm not making many efforts to change myself. On the contrary. I've been self-sabotaging for years. I set fire to countless bridges. I talked to people I shouldn't have. I ignored some very large, very alarming red flags. I could be in a better place if I had better self control, if I could stop seeing things as either extreme good or extreme bad, if I had better judgement, if I weren't afraid of judgement, if I loved myself.

Never have I had a day in which I regretted nothing. I wonder if some may see that as sad. I always regret something, be it something small like not having the energy to iron a wrinkled sweater, or something bigger like choosing the wrong people to trust.

Then I think about how these experiences could have silver linings. Maybe if I learned from my mistakes, I could say that I'm walking away a better person.

Too bad I'm a slow-learner.