I *still* think I need help.

Yeah, though I never asked for it.
Have you ever heard me ever asking for anybody's help? I honestly don't get myself most times. Like, I have a couple of journals that could probably explain myself to me but I'm afraid of reading them.

I found out recently that I've blacked out some huge parts of my life.
A few months ago, like any other day I decided to clear up my cupboard, trying to throw out the things that I don't need anymore, (of course, I don't need half of the things in it) but I was held back when I found my journals and decided to sit down and read them.
BIG MISTAKE.
Now I remember how broken my heart was about some things in the past.
And to be truthfully honest, I could think of a couple of people that wouldn't be my friends today if I hadn't forgotten what had happened.

I was that good at blocking out my own memory.
It's amazing how traumatizing those experiences were that I had actually forgotten about it to remember how to laugh again. And now to remember it again.. I'm forgetting how my laugh really sounds again.
Wow. It's like the two can't exist on the same timeline and now.. apparently I am in deep shit.

I still think I need a psychologist. You know, someone who has no idea who I was (or am).. Somebody unbiased. Somebody I have no judgements of.
But the mere idea of starting over, telling this person about my life from the beginning has already sound tiring.. and petty. Do I really need help?? (Don't answer!)

And I hate people offering their help. Sure.. sure.. everybody needs to be helped at some point, I get it. But I still hate it. In the deep psyche of my head, Plato's words keeps ringing; "be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle". Shit. Somebody should've told me earlier that reading up too many quotes aren't too good for you. Yeah, I am hardly kind but I kept thinking that I need to sort my own problems.
Asking for help, wanting opinions or even venting.. hasn't been an easy option for me.

There is no way out. I am too critical of my own thoughts. I am best described to be making a living in my own prison where the bars aren't only locked shut; the very hinges, the hole of the lock for the key, from the grills to the floor -- are glued. No way out. I am.. trapped in my own ideas (or lack of it) until the day I would suffocate and finally die, by myself.

Now tell me that all these aren't the words of a twisted.. and most obviously, troubled person. I dare you, go ahead and tell me.
You know what's the most amazing thing about writing this entry?? I have completely forgetten what had ticked me to start writing it this way in the first place. Seriously.

Shit.
I just need inspiration.
Why does it have to be this hard? Why aren't my words flowing freely if I wasn't angry.. melancholic or yacking about things that hardly means anything?
I'd rather be dead than detached.