There are days when I wake up, but I’m not really awake. It’s like I’m still stuck in that half-dream state, only the dream is my own life, and it feels too far away to touch. I move through everything, but it’s like I’m not even here. The thoughts in my head don’t match the motions of my body. There’s a disconnect, like I’m not in control of anything anymore. I’m just a passenger in my own life.
People talk to me, they ask how I’m doing, and I give them the answers they want to hear. “I’m okay.” “I’m fine.” But I’m not fine. I’m not even close to being fine. Every word feels like a lie, but I keep saying it because it’s easier than explaining the suffocating weight that sits on my chest. It’s easier than telling them how tired I am—tired of pretending, tired of feeling like I’m sinking deeper every day, and most of all, tired of being invisible in a world that doesn’t even notice.
I can’t remember the last time I felt anything real. It’s like my emotions are sealed behind glass, and no matter how hard I press my hands against it, I can’t break through. I feel nothing, but I also feel everything, all at once. The emptiness is louder than the pain, and the silence in my head screams at me, reminding me of all the things I can’t fix, all the things that are beyond my reach.
I’ve stopped asking for help. I’ve stopped hoping that someone will reach out and see me, really see me, because no one can. They can’t even hear the things I’m not saying, the cries for help buried deep beneath the surface. And I’m not sure if I’m asking for help anymore. Maybe it’s easier to stay hidden, to keep all of this inside, to let the weight pull me down instead of facing the exhaustion of trying to keep it together.
I don’t know how long I can keep doing this. The days blur together until I can’t tell one from the next. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Maybe I’m waiting for something to change, but I don’t know if it ever will. Maybe I’m just waiting for the fog to lift, even though I know deep down that it probably never will.
I used to dream of a life that was full of something. Full of meaning, full of joy, full of hope. Now, I don’t even know what those words mean anymore. I feel like I’m just surviving, just passing through each day, watching everything happen around me, but never really living in it. There’s a part of me that wants to fight, to pull myself out of this, but that part is so quiet now. It’s buried under so much sadness, under so many doubts, that I don’t even know how to listen to it anymore.
And sometimes, I think maybe I’m not supposed to listen. Maybe I’m just supposed to stay in this space, to stay stuck in this empty loop. Because what’s the point of fighting when you don’t know what you’re fighting for? What’s the point of hoping when you’ve forgotten what hope feels like?
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