I am lazy.
I don’t want to put in the effort to enjoy things.
I don’t enjoy things.
I don’t want to put in the effort to think about things long enough to have feelings or opinions on them.
I don’t care.
I don’t care about not caring.
I know underneath the real me cares about not caring and is a passionate person but I don’t care that she is trapped in a cocoon of apathy, swaddled in procrastination, and smothering in chunks of self-disgust, ultimately bathed in a smog of her own fear.
I do not care.
What’s more is I don’t remember how to care or what it felt like to care. I am more emo than I ever dared to be when listening to Simple Plan as a preteen, almost to the point of being a caricature of adult indulgence.
I am ineffective in my life and certainly directionless. I now understand that times when I thought I had a purpose and a plan were willful ignorance, barreling down a path that was bound to fall apart. I feel like a shell of myself, needlessly delicate and prone to degrading and collapsing. Of little use and structurally unreliable. A disappointing remnant of what a person should be, whoever I was meant to be if not for my own sloth.
I both loathe myself and don’t have the investment to dislike myself. I’m just in this state of limbo, worse than I have ever been. I have internalized certain people’s worst perceptions of me to the point those fictionalized versions feel like they are steeped in years of reality. I feel as if I am human garbage but not worthy of so formal a title, or even the respect intended with the word “human.”
I feel I am trash. Disposable. An eye sore when left in the casual view of passersby. Unpleasant and a nuisance to any environment I occupy. Unable to add anything of value to anywhere I go but somehow have residual, negative effects on everything that touches me, a thin, wrinkled cellophane that was once the shiny wrapping covering something more promising.