My Personal Paradoxical Tragedy

Senior year, when everything comes to closure. And I’m killing it. I’m hitting my important deadlines; I’m improving my art; I’m making more friends than I ever have in my life; I’m more of a risk taker and self advocate than ever before; I’m advancing to Regionals in track with a very high chance of making it to state; I’m able to relax more because of a lighter class schedule, and I’m getting good grades; I have a job; I operate a positivity blog geared towards advice for high schoolers; I’ve been doing really well at making other people smile; And I’m going to my dream college in a couple of months. Things couldn’t be better.
And yet things couldn’t be much worse. My depression is tearing me apart, drawing clouds over my happiest moments and best achievements. I feel sullen and tired and like I’m just not good enough, and I can never get better. Everything feels so far off. My art has only just begun, and there are so many basic skills I need to learn that my art teacher is not teaching me. I need to form a strong base before anyone will truly be able to appreciate my art, and even then, experienced artists will scoff at my clumsy, inexperienced hand. There is always somebody better, and the judgement is killing me. Yet I must create.
And my writing has fallen to such a decrepit state, to where I haven’t been able to write much more than a few song lyrics and blog posts this year. I don’t feel the motivation to write. I feel worn down, like the magic of words has been driven to profess as the profane, no longer a halo of truth, but a thistled brush of apathy.
My singing has been forever changed to my ears. Although a pleasant sound in its entirety, the base note holds a nasally tone, and when sung loud, in a group, or into a microphone my voice sounds tinny. The e’s have a vocal catch to them. My breath control is deplorable. All in all, only one of these problems can I physically change, and even then, physically the volume cannot shift up more than a click of a dial. I don’t believe it’s possible to change the base tone of a person’s voice. Also, singing forte on a bottom of my range song daily has slaughtered my mezzo range, leaving simple songs challenging and full of vocal breaks. The fates were always attached against me for singing anyway, having asthma as well as Vocal Chord Disorder.
In music composition, my luck is also rather dismal. I play guitar with some skill, but in other instruments my command is severely lacking. Also I have not touched my guitar in a month. That and the composition software I have is so confusing, I cannot currently maneuver it. I have so many ideas, but I do not have the skill to fully realize them.
Lastly my photography has faded from my dreams. My beautiful Fujifilm XF1 has collected dust on my shelf. The reason is the saddest part. I am no longer able to see the beauty around me. Everything seems so dull to me now. Even if I were to take pictures, I do not fully comprehend how to operate the camera settings for optimal photographs, and I do not know where start with editing.
My charity ideas have faded in their effectiveness. My idea to offer free senior portraits has dwindled. The places I was planning on posting flyers are places I have not been. My social anxiety, though partially quieted through this year’s events, flares at the thought of asking somebody to put up my flyer. The bracelets which I intend on selling for charity have hit a snag in development where I’m a lazy, terrified human being who cannot tolerate the idea of a material not working. The t shirts I want to design to raise money for an asthma charity are also victims of my fear of failure. The craft camp I need to create in the summer is also looking dismal, as I am not sure how to fit it in with my new work schedule.
Speaking of my work schedule, I’m having trouble finding a second job, a night job, to make enough money to support myself at the college I’m going to be attending.
In crafts I am also stretched thin. The fanny packs I intended on pitching to local businesses have fallen to the wayside, as my confidence dwindles and dwindles. A simple factor of not being able to thread the bobbin also stops me from repairing ripped clothes. The bleach pen t shirts have been thrown aside as my first attempt involved a bleach resistant shirt, and I have not since been able to find one that is compatible. And laziness prevents me from completing a friend’s Christmas gift.
I also have not studied for my college placement exams yet despite having a full hour of office help.
Even Supernatural, my sanctuary, feels foreign to me. I am too apathetic to watch the one thing that brings me the most joy and emotion.
I hate my life, and I hate myself. There’s no reason to believe I am a failure except for the unbelievably high standards I set for myself. Because I know I could just get it all done if my Depression wasn’t so intent on rendering me immobile and incapable of motivation. And if my anxiety wasn’t so intent on ruining all of my accomplishments and goals. I just want to sleep all the time, and I’m just so tired of it.

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