For context, read:
https://files.catbox.moe/27ooa0.pngMy feelings in my last confession have gotten worse. This frustration-like shameful sensation has a weighted permahold on me and flairs up as hatred here and there, and when that happens I raise my fist like you wou before hitting a dog. Except I don’t hit myself, instead, I stare disgusted at my hand. The “you justify misery because you want attention” thoughts rears its ugly head, I feel hateful, I think that shame is just more cultivated misery, and the loop starts. I haven’t done anything, but I’ve stared at the knife drawer a few times tonight.
Confessing isn’t going to fix me, nor do I think it’s healthy for me, but whether selfish or pleading, I want to. Have a nice night, Anons.
