Depression.

A drug addict ponders why they're so unhappy.

Locking myself away was a mistake.

I thought it was helping me. I thought it was making things easier.

But 12 years of isolation wasn't the solution.

I hardly ever saw my family.

It was just me and the demonic thing in my head.

Anxiety's goal was to break me down, and it succeeded.

I hated myself.

The thought of happiness was foreign to me.

Fear was all I ever felt. Fear and self-hatred.

I often wondered why I was cursed with this issue.

Why couldn't I be happy?

When I watched people from my window, they seemed so content. Why couldn't I be like them?

Was I keeping the balance?

If I were to suddenly stop suffering, would everyone else become like I was?

Thoughts like those made me a little less distraught.

I liked to have the occasional feeling of importance, though I knew I wasn't actually special.

When I still talked to my parents, they always used to tell me how special I was. When I thought back on those days, my immediate thought was "They're liars".

But maybe they weren't lying. Maybe they only saw what they wanted to see.

Maybe they were just blind to the pain I felt, because all they could see was "their precious angel".

Dad died, still thinking I was something to be proud of.

But my mom is around to see what I really am.

Her precious outcast.

Her perfect little junkie.