Nowadays, whenever I try writing in some kind of blog or journal . . . it's utter failure. In most cases I hate what I wrote and throw it away or in a blogs case: delete it. I know it has a lot to do with my denial about the ugly person that depression has created. It really doesn't help that my anxiety fuels it.

All I've wanted is to be content; to live freely without a care. I've always felt this void in my chest and heart, like something is missing, but I can't figure out what.

This is how I feel everyday of my life, especially now. I've even made extremely reckless decisions because of my anxiety thinking if I do this or that that it will improve my state of mind.

Starting another one of these just scares me. My head hurts just thinking about it.

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