I have never felt so cold.. So bitter... So vulnerable.. In my life I have always felt so cheerful and happy... Myself.. But as time has moved forward.. I have changed.. Im not happy. I am sad all the time... Sometimes because of all the negativity around me.. Or sometimes just for no apparent reason.. But why? Am I fake like everyone says I am.. Ugly? Useless? A slut? I don't know what to believe about myself anymore.. Who am I? It feels like I have lost myself.. There are no words to describe how I feel.. I feel emotionally drained.. I am so tired of everything.. But why do I feel like this? its not as bad.. But I am just in a slump.. So depressed.. I never feel true happiness.. It really does hurt.. To feel this way.. To feel as if I am just a disappointment to everyone. Like I am a failure that will get no where in life. Do you know how that feels? It sucks it really does. Maybe if I died everyone would be happier without me.. Life would be better for my parents and brother would be more happy.. No one would have to deal with my sorry ungrateful self. I take so much for granted.. I am selfish like dad says... I am a failure.. I don't deserve anything that makes me happy.. I have finally realized that.. I will never be good enough for anyone especially my parents and friends.. They deserve a better daughter and friend.. I ask myself everyday.. Why am I still here?.. Why? Should I just leave and never come back.. Maybe that is whats best for me and everyone else.. If I just left and never came back.. Everyone would be happier if that happened right?.. I think so... So why don't I just do it already.. These feeling that I have inside of me are so strong I cant even describe it anymore.Why do people have to be this lonely? What's the point of it all? Millions of people in this world, all of them yearning, looking to others to satisfy them, yet isolating themselves. Why? Was the earth put here just to nourish human loneliness? What you must understand about me is that I'm a deeply unhappy person. "She awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day her heart would descend from her chest into her stomach. By early afternoon she was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for her, and by the desire to be alone. By evening she was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of her grief, alone in her aimless guilt, alone even in her loneliness. I am not sad, she would repeat to herself over and over, I am not sad. As if she might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others--the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because her life had unlimited potential for happiness, in so far as it was an empty white room. She would fall asleep with her heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning she would wake with it again in the cupboard of her rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the midafternoon she was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.