Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #14
I know my self-esteem has been low for as long as I can remember. Looking back, I don’t recall many happy or carefree times. My memories are often clouded by discomfort, insecurity, or moments when I felt small or inadequate. Even now, when I try to remember something positive, it’s overshadowed by that persistent doubt that I’m flawed or not enough.
Lately, I feel overwhelmed by a persistent sense of hopelessness and helplessness, as if no matter what I do, nothing will truly change. This heaviness stays with me almost constantly—I wake up feeling it, carry it through my day, and it lingers even during quiet moments. It’s not just sadness; it’s a deep, lasting emptiness—a hollow feeling I can’t seem to fill. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just drifting through life, invisible and pointless, simply occupying space rather than truly living. The thoughts keep returning: that I’m wasted or that I have nothing good to offer. It’s tiring, and I can’t even remember when it started—these feelings seem woven into my earliest memories. I know my self-esteem has been low for as long as I can remember. Looking back, I don’t recall many happy or carefree times. My memories are often clouded by discomfort, insecurity, or moments when I felt small or inadequate. Even now, when I try to remember something positive, it’s overshadowed by that persistent doubt that I’m flawed or not enough. Sometimes I feel an urge to scream or just let everything out, to find relief from what I’m feeling so intensely. There are times when nothing feels worth it—when I’m so tired of battling the same thoughts that it seems pointless to keep going. But deep down, I know that’s not true. Logically, I understand that things can be meaningful, that there are reasons to hope or try. But actually feeling it—believing it—right now, that’s the hardest part. I don’t know what the future holds. Sometimes I just wish I could quiet the noise in my head, or believe—even for a moment—that things could be better. Maybe writing this down is something. Maybe it helps, even a little, just to admit how heavy all of this feels.
Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #11
Endless rooms, doors, and hallways stretching out with no way to escape. It’s as if I’m wandering through it, searching for meaning or just someone to say hello to, but mostly finding emptiness. It gets lonely.
I feel so tired today, more than usual. I know I function best at night—there's something about the quiet, the calm darkness that lets me think clearly and feel at ease. But despite that, I can't shake this growing sense of loneliness. I miss talking to people, sharing moments and conversations, even the little bits of interaction that make up our days. Sometimes, this place feels like a labyrinth. Endless rooms, doors, and hallways stretching out with no way to escape. It’s as if I’m wandering through it, searching for meaning or just someone to say hello to, but mostly finding emptiness. It gets lonely. I feel alone a lot. I’ve been thinking about Nietzsche’s theory of Eternal Recurrence. The idea that everything repeats itself endlessly, every joy, every sorrow, every mistake, all looping back in an infinite cycle. I wonder if it’s true. And if it is, what does that mean for me? I hope not—that I wouldn’t want to be trapped reliving this same existence again and again. But at the same time, I wonder if maybe I’d like a chance to move on from here—or maybe to stay, to fix the things I messed up the first time around. Perhaps that’s the hope beneath the exhaustion: if I could do it all over again, maybe this time I’d get it right. But for now, I’m just here, tired, alone, waiting for the night to come again.
Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #8
The illness I carry feels relentless, creeping into every corner of my daily life. Even the most ordinary things, comforts I used to rely on, now seem unfamiliar, almost alien. I wonder if these changes come from the lesions in my brain; it’s unsettling to realize that what’s happening inside me is reshaping how I see the world.
Lately, I’ve been grappling with a deep sense of fatigue — it’s as if my entire body is weighed down by something heavier than exhaustion. The illness I carry feels relentless, creeping into every corner of my daily life. Even the most ordinary things, comforts I used to rely on, now seem unfamiliar, almost alien. I wonder if these changes come from the lesions in my brain; it’s unsettling to realize that what’s happening inside me is reshaping how I see the world. This loss of familiarity brings a quiet fear. I worry about the possibility of losing my mobility, about the day I might be unable to walk or care for myself. The thought of losing my independence, of relying on others for simple tasks, haunts me. Still, I refuse to let these fears stop me. I’m determined to keep moving forward, to press on despite the challenges. Amid all this uncertainty, my special project has become a beacon. Organizing my writings, giving myself something meaningful to focus on, has brought a sense of purpose and hope. As I prepare this new work, I picture them resonating with others, maybe giving them comfort or understanding. That hope — that my words might reach someone — is what keeps me going.
Joanna Jeanine’s Diary Entry #6
The strangest sensation comes over me: I feel blank, almost as if my face has disappeared—erased, featureless. Nothing to distinguish me, nothing to mark me as me. I imagine myself as one of those unfinished marionettes in a cluttered workshop—no identity, no lines drawn, just raw wood and string, not ready for anything, not even display.
It’s an overcast day today. The sky is a heavy, blank gray—the kind of endless, low ceiling that presses softly against the world, muting every color. There’s a gloom to it, and just enough chill in the air that for a moment, I’m fooled into thinking it’s Autumn. Almost. But I know soon enough it will shift—humidity creeping in, the air growing thick and hot. I can sense it waiting in the wings, ready to replace this melancholic chill with a different kind of discomfort. I woke up feeling ill, a fog wrapping around both my body and my thoughts. There’s heaviness in my limbs that I can’t fully explain away, and my mind feels just as sluggish as the sky. The strangest sensation comes over me: I feel blank, almost as if my face has disappeared—erased, featureless. Nothing to distinguish me, nothing to mark me as me. I imagine myself as one of those unfinished marionettes in a cluttered workshop—no identity, no lines drawn, just raw wood and string, not ready for anything, not even display. Even when people surround me, it’s as though I’m alone, locked somewhere far back within myself, behind rattling thoughts bouncing around a vacant space. I watch the conversations and interactions as if through frosted glass, both near and infinitely far away. I can’t seem to trust my own opinions, let alone voice them—sometimes I wonder if they even matter, or if anyone would care if I did speak up. But why should they notice me? There isn’t anything worth seeing. That’s what it feels like—hollow, indistinct, a silhouette instead of a person. These moments of emptiness come often. Still, it’s not that I’m unhappy with my life in general. If anything, I’m genuinely grateful for how things are. I like the way I live, the patterns and routines I’ve built. But inside myself, I’m restless, dissatisfied. Content with the world that I move through, yet at odds with the person moving through it.