Sometimes…

…I wonder if all I ever do is live a fantasy.

I build up ideas of people and then I get disappointed when those ideas are shattered. I build up ideas of relationships; I build up ideas of myself. None of it is ever real. My life isn’t real.

All my life, I’ve blanketed myself with stories and I’m not sure how much longer I thought that would fulfill me. There are times where I convince myself that it is okay, it’s okay, it’s okay that I only access love through fiction, it’s okay that everybody in this house feels sad.

But I don’t think it is okay. I feel so. sad. All the time. I have these stupid fucking ideas of what life is supposed to be like, of course I’m going to be disappointed.

Yesterday, I asked my mom if she ever felt sad. She told me that instead I should ask her if she ever feels happy.

I don’t think she understands how much it’s impacted me that she told me about when she tried to commit suicide. I don’t think my dad understands how much it’s impacted me that he told me Grandma used to tell Grandpa to beat him.

I think that it is impossible to live life happily. I want to stop feeling sad. I want to stop thinking that there is ever a life where I can stop feeling sad. I am so disappointed, all the time.

Why didn’t she tell me? Life is so messy. I’m only fucking 15, look at me sobbing up a storm. I’m just a really dramatic bitch, aren’t I?

Sometimes, all I want to do is get into a car and drive. Just drive. Where would I go? Who knows. I’d drive, and drive, and drive, and maybe I’d drive far enough that I’d forget about everything. Maybe I’d drive far enough that I’d be able to see the stars. Maybe I’d drive into the sun, like Icarus.

I am thinking about the time when Bojack Horseman wrote a letter to Secretariat asking him how one stops being sad. I would like to know the answer, too.