I used to like writing. I'm at a point where I don't know if I do, still. I'm pretty sad most of the time, and it gets in the way of writing.

Being sad gets in the way of most things.

I'm still very normal on the outside. I still speak to my friends, I still tend to my family. I still pull myself out of bed, brush my hair, wear nice clothes, put makeup on my face. I go to class. I smile at strangers. It's all so painfully average and normal, so it's really weird to feel like I'm cracking apart on the inside.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not myself, like I'm somewhere above myself looking down at this other person living in my body, and doing the things I do, and living my life. When I feel that way, I look at myself and I think that I look and sound very crazy. I worry that if I stay this way too long, I will push everyone away. I'm so sad most days that after I get ready, and go out, and go to class, and talk to friends, I come home and I lay in bed. Sometimes I cry, but usually I don't. I just lay here for hours, until its time to sleep, and then when I wake up I start the whole cycle over again.

Its a little bit scary to think about how long I've been living this way. How it all seems so normal. If I were to tell anyone else, they would not think it was normal... they would think I am insane. I don't think I'm insane. But I don't know what I am right now. I don't know what else to say.

I really don't know a lot of things.