And I never felt so incomplete, so unfathomably hallow. That my desire for writing is so undeniably impaired, that my thoughts turned shallow. no buoyancy here only despair and these obsessive inquiries about why I wasn't adequate. "why wasn't I good enough?" Fill my head. It's hard enough to look in the mirror and not loath the person you see, but to have the pulverizing force of the concussion that you will never meet someone's criteria of what you should be. Is strenuous, excruciating, it's... killing me