Today I Feel as Fragile as Character from a Virginia Woolf Novel

Today I spent scouring a house. I was atoning for something, trying to scrub away my uselessness and the reasons why I’m so ultimately flawed and non-essential. But I am still so lonely. I take shelter in my claustrophobic, unkempt room and pray that no one will invade its easy space and judge me. That’s why I cleaned today, maniacally wiping away every speck from everything for hours, like I never do. I was trying not to be discarded, trying to abrade myself into a safe, clean oblivion. I haven’t spoken to anyone today, except for the terrible, critical phone call that woke me up and started this whole thing, and the tiny angry words that I had sought to avoid, that drove me in here so that no trace of me would be left out there. If I disappear, they cannot take hold of me, cannot disapprove or reproach. Even if it is cold and terrible, alone and forgotten, I am safe in here; I can comprehend myself. No one will ever know me really, and no one will ever love me because I am not the kind of person that people are accustomed to loving. I am not glorious in any way, I am not assured or talented, my flaws are not commendable (I am inert and timid and too sensitive). The world has no place for me and so I must make do in being untouched and alone, with only my observations and longings for company. I will watch others dance through life, moving without the self-consciousness that so paralyzes me. I will feel as if, for a second, I could be one of them, productive and valuable, but ultimately I will fight myself to do anything and I will wish for sleep, where in dreams I am dynamic and free.