It's crazy how just one simple interaction with somebody can set my anxiety off and send me into a spiral. This is probably the reason why I always hesitate to reach out to anyone who may be in pain to offer comfort. How can I offer others any when I don't even have enough for myself? 

If I thought my blog posts were depressing enough, the real gold is in the drafts. 

I can't even remember how many years it has been since I've wanted to die. 

Sometimes I wonder whether my closest friends are aware of the fact that I am not joking when I say that I have nothing to live for and that I wish, so desperately, to be dead. It is not a comment made out of skepticism or spite. It is not a passing phase. Sometimes it feels like they don't want to know that part of me. 

Being known is being loved. 

But they don't want to know me.