Seduced by the Shadows

Sometimes I just sit in the dark, staring at nothing, and it's like this hollow ache has been my constant companion since I was a kid. I don't like myself, not one bit; it's this deep-seated disgust that twists in my gut every time I look in the mirror or hear my own voice. Life feels like a fog, where everything is muted and distant, and I'm just drifting through it, pretending to be okay. I remember being little, maybe five or six, lying in bed and feeling this overwhelming emptiness, like there's a void where my heart should be, and no matter how hard I try to fill it with friends or hobbies or even fleeting moments of joy, it just echoes back, mocking me. It's exhausting, this constant weight; my thoughts spiral into self-loathing, whispering that I'm not enough, that I'm broken beyond repair. I've pushed people away because of it, afraid they'll see the mess I am, and now I'm left alone with these feelings that claw at me day and night. I want to scream it out, to shake off this shadow, but it's stuck, fused to my soul. And yet, confessing it here feels like a small release, a way to let the world know that beneath the surface, I'm just a bundle of raw nerves and unspoken pain, yearning for something real to hold onto. It's messy, it's ugly, and it's all mine.