Hope, stumble, ruin, repeat.

 

"why cant I cry. I want to but I just cant, whats wrong with me? Why do I ruin everything for myself because im too damn ignorant. Im done expecting things from myself becasue im always disapointed in the end"

I want to cry—I do. But the tears don’t come. They never do.

It’s like the feeling is there, just out of reach, pooling somewhere deep inside me where I can’t touch it. I feel the weight of it pressing against my ribs, a pressure that builds and builds, but never spills over. My throat tightens, my chest burns, and yet my eyes stay dry. Blank. Useless.

What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I do this one simple thing? Crying would be better than this, better than sitting here with my thoughts clawing at me, ripping me apart from the inside. I ruin myself, don’t I? That’s the truth of it. Every time, I find a way to twist the knife, to dig my own grave, and then act surprised when I fall in.

It’s not even ignorance. It’s worse than that. It’s knowing exactly what I’m doing—watching myself take the wrong step, say the wrong thing, build the wrong life—and still being too stupid, too stubborn, too me to stop it.

I’m sick of it. Sick of me. Of this endless cycle where I hope for something better, for something more, only to watch myself crumble under the weight of my own expectations. Every damn time. Why do I keep thinking this time will be different? Why do I keep expecting things from myself when I know I’ll only end up here—angry and empty and disappointed in the person I’m supposed to be?

I sit here, staring at the wall, waiting for the dam to break. It doesn’t. The ache just sits there, swelling and stretching until it’s all I am. I can feel it, this heaviness in my chest, this coldness in my veins. It feels like I’m breaking, but not enough to shatter. Just enough to bruise.

I wonder if I’ll ever cry again. If I’ll ever stop ruining things for myself. If I’ll ever stop being... this.