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          Hating yourself is an exhausting thing. It makes you tired all the time, but it keeps you up all night, thinking, trying to forget. It makes you want to never eat another mouthful yet you also want to give up, stuff your face with rubbish.           It makes you spend money, spend and spend on things to try and feel beautiful, try to feel important, valuable, while it also makes you want to burn all your clothes, throw away everything you own, everything you don't deserve. And it makes you want to run away, from everyone, from everything.           It makes you want to ditch this life, and start over, knowing no one, being no one. Yet all you can do is lie in bed, uselessly, letting life pass you by. You just lie there, with that hatred. And it's almost all you can feel.

It still hurts when I see you. I still miss you sometimes. It hits me in the middle of the night when I'm laying alone with nothing but my thoughts. It hits me in the middle of math class when I'm working on solving an equation. It hits me anytime it wants to, but it's happening less and less. You're happy. it's not because of me. I still wish that it was, but I'm happy for you. All I want is to see you happy. You have good friends, a good life. You're learning that you don't need me for your happiness. I think that this is letting go. I think that this is moving on. I still miss you, it still hurts me, but it feels so good.

   I've been very alone for a number of years now, and I too dread weekends as I feel condemned to perpetual silence. Even weekdays are a trial because I have begun to believe that no one I talk to particularly looks forward to seeing me.  I try to be as kind as I know how, and I am not purposefully antagonistic toward people. I seem to bring people down apparently because my conversations gravitate toward bleakness. I don't really have anything else to talk about though, because my life consists of a slew of problems and loneliness.