I… think I need to write this in English, to be able to write it at all. I mean, it’s not like I’ve suddenly discovered some unthinkable new trauma, I just don’t want to crash into the wall of fears and obsessing over meanings and being meaningful and the most perfect navel-gazer that ever perfected (well, tried to, miserably and too little). And also, I’ve been reading pretty much too much of everything in English at present, and I’m in a hurry (which in itself rare – well, I’m always in a hurry now, but I could very well not be, if I didn’t spend all my time running desperately away into pictures and stories).

Anyway. I read this fabulously written, long, difficult story about a broken character and his attempts at recovery. It was… it was, honestly, the most moving, most beautiful, most impressive piece of fiction I can remember reading in the past months. That it was fanfiction is completely incidental, it has nothing to do with the impact, the deeply insightful descriptions of trauma, of abuse, of the fight to break free of that abuse – both systematic in that universe and horribly personal to the protagonist.

And I thought I should have been inspired by that struggle to fight harder to be healthier and stronger myself.

I wasn’t.

Because there’s nothing to struggle for. The protagonist has suffered horrible experiences and is a prisoner of those experiences, but he longs to be free of them, to be himself, to live the life he wants, fulfill his dreams and show his worth – of which there is so, so much, once he can (well, not once, but in parts, in time) free himself.

I – I have no real burden of such imprisonment, have not had any for a long time, and even then it was a house of snow, maybe, compared to the prisons of terror for that protagonist. But I have nothing to give either. What would I fight to show? I’m nothing special. In fact, I’m not much anything.

I couldn’t feel horrified at the abuse, because it wouldn’t have been a hindrance to me. What would there have been to hinder?

Nothing.

Why the fuck am I still alive?

My two week’s respite from finishing a piece, ANY piece, of study reports or papers is over. I know I could produce something that passes, even reasonably. And I still don’t. And I still neglect some aspects of my job very badly. I just don’t. Anything. And I miss people horribly – HORRIBLY – but constantly fail at how to be with them, far less (what I even more horribly crave to be able to) be there FOR them. And how could I, when just existing is intolerable unless I hide from that existence into other worlds. Minute by minute, second by second, heartbeat by heartbeat, my life drips by, and I cannot make it a life.

I’m such a waste. And I was supposed to be better now – after all, I just had two weeks’ respite, even.