Diary of the Emotionally Damaged

by Devina

I wake up and get to work. It’s the bright side of freelancing – you don’t have to get ready in the morning and dress up pretty, nor do you have to see coworkers and interact with them the whole day.

Work is fun, or it’s the best thing to do to kill time. Life is a long timeline, and what is there to do to get through life?

Accomplishments are celebrated with comic books. It feels like it’s necessary to celebrate something. Last month I got Injustice, and it was a good reward to my hard work.

For some reason, it feels like I should reward myself for having gone through few months of good work.

Sometimes it’s a lonely happy hour. Few drinks and a novel.

And nobody else.

Hobbies are also good ways to spend time with. I sketch during my free time – sometimes during lunch or coffee. I play the piano when I feel like singing, I dance every night, and Muay Thai few times a week.

I thought, Muay Thai would help me release my anger. I’d punch and kick everything out and have my anger out of my system. But the irony is that, I feel nothing. No sadness, no anger.

However, it’s become a part of the routine.

I love movies, and they have been the red marks on my calendar to remind me that “I have gone through another month without a good movie.” That is how I mark the timeline of my life.

Friends are amazing. Good friends, I mean. Acquaintances who think I’m fascinating annoy me, and I try to not offend them with my short responses – in reality I truly don’t care, but I respect people enough to respond properly.

Good friends I keep, and meet over coffee or dinner sometimes. We talk about current issues, I mainly talk about what I see on Nat Geo Channel (like how awesome Shark Whales are or how deep Mariana Trench is), and they about their life problems.

There is no point in talking about how I feel, or how my heart is.

It is unimportant. And how I feel is irrelevant.

Sometimes at night I wake up and cry myself back to sleep. I remember him walking away and telling me that I caused all the damages in our story.

And my heart breaks again, and it seems like it will never be over.

How pathetic is it that even years after the very first heartbreak, your heart can still break from the memory, over and over again?

And it’s become a habit which is ignored. It isn’t a problem anymore, it’s become a part of life.

I do not point my finger at him and tell him it’s all his fault. I don’t go to my friends and cry. I don’t tell myself anything. Or anyone anything anymore.

I’m hurting, and that’s a fact. It’s not a story anymore – it’s not anybody’s business – and it’s just a routine.

After work, I turn on Nat Geo channel and watch the wild life. How simple and nice it is out there in the woods, the animals living in peace and looking happy.

I avoid romantic stories. It hurts watching people hurting each other, even on TV. And sometimes it hurts more than I think it might. It’s like a knife stabbed and twisted in your chest.

Days go by, and we get by.

I look at my work calendar and wonder, “Where did all the time go?”

There is nothing significant, nothing amazing, and nothing truly exciting. Don’t get me wrong, I love work, and if I could, I’d just marry work.

But deep down, I feel empty.

I travel and see places I dreamed of. I go for things and do things I never did before. I go after things on my bucket list and cross them out one by one.

But there is no happiness.

I spend hours reading comic books and admiring the details of Batman illustration. I tell myself, “This is happiness.”

But I know I am lying to myself.

There is no real, grounded smile. And days go by like flashes before my eyes, that sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night wondering how I got there.

Then sometimes at night I ask myself, “What do you want?”

I used to want the life he and I planned together. I used to want the happy little house he wanted to buy in a suburbs in Germany, I used to imagine the children he planned to raise with me.

I used to want the life he and I had talked about for years.

Then now, I want nothing. Not even the things I used to want.

I don’t want him, I don’t want the life he talked about, I don’t want the house, the children, the happiness I once had.

And when there’s nothing else to think about or to ponder upon, when I know it’s dead end and my heart still feels no beat, I go to sleep.

Then I wake up to another day, getting up for work and another day of a fulfilling life.

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