Why do I even write?
I asked myself that question this morning. Lying in bed, I wondered what I was doing with my life. I wondered what the point of it all was. I no longer enjoy things…..but I never really did to begin with. I have always been a robot of sorts. One that has never truly been able to live life. Is this a result of my upbringing or has society caused me to be this way? Is this just who I am? Was I always this way?
The past year has been a nightmare. My entire reality was flipped upside down. My whole identity has been erased and now I don’t even really know who I am. The past few months have been especially rough. I’ve found myself sleeping my time away. Consecutive days of sleep would easily turn into a week-long slumber.
Even when awake, I wouldn’t leave the house. I’d alternate between YouTube videos, binging Netflix, and playing a video game or two. After a while, even those low energy tasks became too much for me to handle. The amount of energy required outweighed any enjoyment I would derive.
I’d have stints of energy that would last no longer than a day. A day where I would maybe workout or walk. Watch a movie if something interesting was out. Other times, I’d take the basketball and shoot around or play a game if there were other people around. Nothing brought me joy however. Nothing made me excited to wake up. There was nothing I looked forward to…
