I wonder if there's something inside of me that's just plain afraid of happiness. At the end of each day, I'm just washed over with the same old feelings of loneliness and worthlessness that has pestered me forever now. Whenever I think of actually taking action to change that, to do something that would actually change the makeup of my life and possibly alter my inert but miserable life, my mind spins into a hypothesis:
I try to think of how life, normal everyday life, would look like, would feel like, if I were just happy. It's a really hard thing to picture, cause I'm honestly not sure. It seems dreamlike, just utterly surreal. It doesn't seem possible. I can get close though, but when I get close, my body naturally tenses up in fear. Natural, instinctive fear. The reasoning I can think of, is that the reference points I do possess for this state are the periods of my life where I've believed sincerely that things were taking an upturn, that things were getting better, that I was finally on the golden path to happiness that I've longed for for so long, but now history knows where simply the preceding events to abominable periods of terrible and crushing anxiety and depression that knocks me down, filling my life with turmoil and misery for months at a time.
Once things finally calm down, once the burning self-hatred finally smolders, and life returns to the dreary state of 'existing' in endless days of pointless sadness, each day segueing into the next without skip, and I'm left to gaze navel-ward as I ponder every mistake in my life leading up to this point. It's a state of affairs that mocks life, that offends the intentions of evolution, but it's the course of life that is separating me from another pleasant lie leading into another crushing stage of depression. It would have been best if I never existed.