I am not important. I am not important. I am not important.

This line reverberates in my head thousands of times a day. Sometimes the words will verbally manifest themselves. And I’ll find myself whispering, “I am not important” over and over. Often, these times are late at night, when everything hits me. My pain, fear, anger, sadness, memories, all of it. I curl up into a ball, tearing making their way onto my bedding, my breath gasping like I’ve been held under water. It all hits me. The words, these horrid words wash over me.

I am not important. I am not important. I am not important.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid that things will always be exactly like this. Going through my day only to come back to my bed and cry. I’m afraid that ten years from now there will be nothing to drive me, and I will come home to an empty home and the sounds of broken sobs.

I am not important. I am not important. I am not important.

I’m afraid that no one will love me. That I don’t deserve love. Yet this is ridiculous, I’ve never done anything so terrible as to not deserve happiness. So I make up excuses, maybe I killed 7 children in a previous life, or set a house on fire, or tortured people for money. I make up any excuse I can to validate that I deserve this unhappiness.

I am not important. I am not important. I am not important.

Maybe the universe forgot me. Being the leftovers of a world created, the extra piece for a puzzle that’s already been completed. Or, I’m the test run to see how broken a soul can become before they break. Some of the many lies I tell myself to make the pain a little more bearable, happiness just wasn’t for me.

I am not important. I am not important. I am not important.

Some days I pick myself up, wanting to prove to the universe that I am strong and I can do this. Yet, other days I don’t try. I put in no effort and let the sadness sweep me away. Is this depression? Some may say it is but I have never allowed myself to accept that because I might just be overreacting. And if I say something I may just be the attention seeker. And I know that so many others have it worse, my life is better than so many have. So I keep my silence.

I am not important. I am not important. I am not important.

It hurt, it really does. I try not to wish and I try not to let them see me cry. So instead I settle for a partially lived life. And I think, “If only I had a passion, a drive, a dream.” So many other’s do. That’s what drives them. I have a lot and I am talented, but I don’t have a passion. I don’t have a love. So I shall wait. Maybe I’ll wait till my next life. Maybe I’ve been waiting and maybe I won’t stop waiting.

But, that’s okay.