I don't know how to begin writing but I guess beginning with "I don't know" will do. 

I stumbled upon old photos of myself when I was 15 or 16 because I was curious. The bad kind of curious. The kind where you dig up your past to try to help you feel or process the present. The kind where you continue digging and you end up feeling worse because that's exactly what you are. Self-destructive. You don't know when or how it began. You roughly know but you're unsure if it's reason enough. You don't want it to be an excuse either for your terrible behaviour but again, you don't know. 

Back then, I thought I would eventually grow out of that uneventful phase. It has been more than a decade and I still hate myself. For the decisions I make. For the decisions I don't make. For every morning I wake up. For every morning I don't wake up. I try to cry because that's what people do when they're sad but I cannot tear for myself. It stresses me out that I'm unable to feel sad like a proper human being. What am I? How much does one have to cry to be humanly sad? Can I not cry at all and have "depressed" plastered across my forehead?

I don't believe in myself. My thoughts, my words, my lack of emotions. I try but everything about me is a front. I leave the house to avoid my mother and I stay inside to avoid the world. I feel bad. I feel bad that I try to prioritise my sanity but I'm lost. Interaction is exhausting. My head is my home. 

What do depressed people do? Maybe I "felt better" then because my actions had zero consequences. Zero tangible consequences. A million psychological ones 10 years later. 

I don't know what to make of myself. I look at myself and see ugly. I am so ugly. I am so ugly every day. How did I miss that? I was looking at everything else and now I only have my self to look at and I hate it. I hate my reflection, I hate my eyes. I hate my thoughts. I hate everything about my self.

Which demon should I feed tonight?