Saturday February 28th 2015 10:41am

I am reduced to expelling my thoughts here. I now lie even to my therapist. Forced to relive every embarrassing thought through these pages. I've torn out more than I can count. Too ashamed to look myself in the eye. What have I become? How could I have not changed in these past seven years? Where is my progress? Is there not one modicum of trust left in this body that I have none left for myself? Has fear reduced me to so little, that the very thought of existence leaves nothing but an empty laugh. I am the problem. I am not blind to this fact. I can no longer blame others or the past. I can only blame myself. My lack of progress is my own. I am too busy locking myself away in a reality that cannot exist. But if it doesn't, where have I been these past five months? My room angers me. Not in general, but at this very moment. It is beautiful, serene even. The warm sun shines through the blinds, illuminating the room. An ambiance such as this would inspire me to partake in something creative. Or at the very least relax and find happiness in the moment. Instead I am wrecked with inner turmoil. Another reminder of my self-loathing and lack of progress. Stop whining! Do something! I yell these words countless times. They now mean nothing. I am doing this to myself. I am the problem. An unreliable narrator I have become even to myself. My memories are no longer the truth. I have self-sabotaged. Is this the only way to give myself meaning? The only way to deem myself noteworthy, by ruining it? Any thing of worth or value is either preserved or destroyed. Why have I chosen the latter?