I'm not sure where to begin. It’s been a long time since I’ve really talked to my audience—if I even have one anymore. Lately, I’ve just been trying to focus on existing. Some days are hard, and I know I’m not alone in that, but it still feels heavy.
I’ve struggled with suicidal thoughts for a long time. When I was a teenager, I was diagnosed with BPD, though I’m not sure that diagnosis still fits. There are signs pointing to other possibilities, but until I get a professional diagnosis, I’ll just say that I’m still figuring things out. What I do know is that the darkness I carry often keeps me from becoming whoever I was meant to be—if I was ever meant to be anyone at all.
The truth is, I’m not doing okay. Mentally or financially. Both have been getting worse. I try not to let it affect me because, relationship-wise, I’m in a safer place than I used to be. But I still feel like a burden—to my roommate, to my partner, to myself. Even before moving, I felt that way. I can talk more openly about my mental health now, which helps, but it’s still taking a toll.
I wanted to write this after talking with my partner about how isolated and ignored I feel. It’s not a new feeling. Even before I started monetizing my art and stories, I felt invisible—like I only exist when I’m making something for someone else. When I try to talk about what I enjoy, the same people who said they cared just... disappear.
It’s not everyone—I do have a few people who try—but if I’m not the one reaching out first, I’m forgotten. And when people do reach out, it’s often because they want something: free art, emotional labor, or worse, something sexual. I hate that so much. The moment I realize that’s all someone wants, I shut down.
I know relationships go both ways, and I try to show interest in others, but it’s exhausting. My social battery has never been big, and even writing this makes me feel like I’m whining about attention. But I’ve felt this way for so long that it’s twisted how I see the world. I get bitter, jealous, resentful—even toward people with the best intentions. I don’t want to feel that way. I just don’t know how to get out of this mindset.
With how the world is right now, I don’t even feel like I have a right to complain. But it still hurts. It’s been hurting for so long that I just want it to stop.
If you’ve been following me for a while, you’ve probably noticed I’ve been trying to work on The Rule of Wonderland. It’s something very different from my original project, Mug. I wish I could’ve stuck with that story, but I just don’t feel connected to it anymore. The Rule of Wonderland has been with me for almost six years, and I’m only on chapter six—and I’m still not happy with it.
That story is supposed to be a reflection of everything I’ve gone through, a kind of self-therapy. Because when I try to tell my story plainly, I feel like no one hears me. I feel so small, so insignificant. I just want to make something that matters—to me, and maybe to someone else too.
But lately, even creating feels empty. People know me as “that artist who drew me this one thing,” and that thought breaks me. I hate feeling like I can’t find joy in something I used to love. I feel burned out and hollow, like everything I’ve made is worthless.
Maybe it’s not just burnout. Maybe it’s the weight of everything pressing down on me at once. I don’t know anymore. I just know I’m tired.
I don’t want this to sound like I’ve given up completely or make anyone worry too much—but I’m not okay. And right now, I can’t see a clear way out.
Please don’t message me with hotline numbers. I’ve been there before, and I know how that goes. What I need isn’t a script—it’s understanding, connection, and care. I can’t afford therapy or medication. I’m in debt, like so many others, and I’m just trying to hold on.
I wish I had better news. I wish I felt hope. But this is where I am right now—and maybe, if nothing else, at least I said it out loud.
