As I look out the window into the darkness, I think, in my half-drunken state, about my life. It’s full of stress that I’m sure many other people feel, yet I feel helpless. Engulfed by a hopelessness, a numbness, and a hatred of myself, I glance at the word I carved into my thigh. It’s there, under the yoga pants. “Stupid.” I am ashamed. Ashamed by the thought, the notion, the adjective. How can I be stupid? 

“Simple,” my hollow mind states back. “You are stupid.”

Stupid because you are struggling this semester. 

Stupid for thinking that you could be a psychologist.

Stupid for thinking you were smart. 

My pride has been destroyed. Crushed and mixed together with my hopes and dreams.

And the word I dug into my leg reminds me that I am stupid.

The world revolves, yet I feel stuck, as if I were dreaming. I’m running but never moving.

Lately, I feel my depression sinking back into my body, and I just exist.

I scream silently, in my head, for help, yet I try to prove that I am strong. I am not.


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