It has been almost a year. I have all these voices in my head and nothing to control them. I have contradicting reasoning and no one to tell me which one is true or which one is false. I'm my own person, a lot more headstrong, and a lot more fragile.

I'm starting to think that being headstrong is just the surface of all the vulnerability, fragility that I'm trying to hide from everyone around me.

I met Elia today, and she suggested me to start writing again. I told her, I have no idea what to write. Everything I write turns to ashes and it frustrates me. She told me, what I've written is good, always good. And I cringed. It's not good enough. I'm never good enough.

But I want to start writing again. Although it's not that good. Although it's rubbish. Perhaps, I can straighten out all these voice in my head. They are scaring me. I wish I can stop thinking for a while. The only time that I can stop thinking is when I sleep. Which is why I like to sleep. It helps a lot.

Perhaps one day it'll be good. My words can find its soul. And I can find the soil to the roots that make me suffocate.

I know my writing at this moment doesn't make sense. But here I am writing. I know it's not cohesive, but I'm still writing.

Mommy and Dini said that I'm not matured. I'm immatured. Dini is more matured than I am. When I want to start talking about how amazing I think Elia is, when I want to start telling them how Elia inspires me, and how I think Elia is a more matured person than I am, they told me that everyone can be more matured than I am. And I was trying so hard not to cry. Perhaps I am that bad. No, of course I'm that bad. Of course.

My struggles don't make me grow, though I have struggled so much. Perhaps my struggles were nothing. Everyone else struggles more than I do. And I should not complain, or bring up on anything. I have no right to be proud of everything that I have gone through because they are nothing.

Mommy also told me that I am not that strong, compared to her, when she got home from overseas. I'm weak, fragile. Perhaps I am.

Abah told me that I should take charge of my own life. Perhaps I am not taking charge of my own life. Perhaps by taking charge of my life is to die. When I commit suicide, I'm taking charge of my life.

You see, these are the things that have been going through my head. And they are scaring me. There are times that I want to drive so fast, and hit a wall. There are times that I wonder what it feels like when I cut my wrist. Perhaps I can feel the calmness inside here. Somewhere inside. Here.

Today my brain made its round again. I don't like a person, and I know why. I don't like Naqib and his family, because his mom told me that I'm fat. And I know I am. But I still don't like them. I didn't like Iylia's wife because she was jealous of me. But I think she's getting better. I can like her now. I think.

Then this other voice in my head was questioning me, is there any possibility that I don't like these people just because I'm jealous of them? Because they have the rizq to be married at such young age but I don't? I don't think so, but then I doubt. I doubt, perhaps I do.

Perhaps.

I'm feeling unimportant, and replaceable. Mr W can just replace me with someone else if I decide to resign. Because I don't bring any profit. I am a loss. I am at lost.

Panic attacks are my fault. I could suppress them for six years. Why did they come out? How were they there? How.

Everything is my fault. None of them are anyone else's fault. I can't die because if I die, people will feel guilty. But if I live, I'm nothing. I'm just a burden.

I think there's something wrong inside here, somewhere inside. Perhaps I only think that I want to die, but I don't want to die. Perhaps I'm feeling all these because I feel the need to act like this, because some people act like these. Perhaps I think that I might have mental illness because other people have it. Perhaps I cry alone, because I'm faking it.

I'm going to end this now. I'll write again tomorrow.