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But not the typical kind of writing. Not the kind where you simply imagine a scene, create a story around it, and put words on a page.

I love the deeper stuff.

The kind of writing you read and then have to sit with for a moment. The kind that makes you think. The kind that moves something inside you. The kind that stays with you long after you’ve finished reading.

I don’t like writing that feels stiff or overly polished. I want it to sound the way I would actually speak. Raw. Honest. Human. Sometimes messy, but real.

I think there is something incredibly powerful about writing that way. When someone puts their deepest thoughts into words without trying to make them prettier than they really are.

I don’t know why more authors aren’t willing to write about the really difficult things. Self-harm. Suicide. PTSD. Anxiety. Sexual assault. Trauma. The things people often avoid because they’re uncomfortable to talk about.

But why?

Aren’t these things part of life, too?

So many people have experienced them. So many people carry things they never talk about. So many people go through pain that remains completely invisible to everyone around them.

Of course, there are books that talk about these things. But I still feel like there is so much more that could be said. So much more that deserves to be put into words.

For me, writing is one of the only ways I can truly express what I feel. When I write, I can say things I could never say out loud. I can put into words what is happening inside my head, even when I don’t fully understand it myself.

No one here knows me in real life.

And somehow, that makes it easier.

I can be completely honest without worrying about how someone will look at me afterward. I can write the thoughts I would be too afraid to say. I can let everything out without having to explain myself.

I think that’s what makes writing so incredible.

Sometimes you don’t write because you have a story to tell.

Sometimes you write because you have feelings you don’t know what else to do with.

Why not me?

Do I know who I love?

Yeah…

For ages, I’ve known that I like girls too. I knew it since high school.

I always had this one special friend, and I really liked her. I really, really liked her. Maybe not just as a friend. Deep down, I know it. I really know it.

I like girls.

Okay. I just said it.

Not said it, but wrote it…

I haven’t told anyone.

I’m scared they’ll judge me. They’ll put me into this typical stereotype of a “lesbian” or “bi girl.” I don’t want that.

I just want to experience loving a woman without feeling like it’s a sin.

I mean, my parents don’t care, I guess. My stepdad is homophobic, but I think he could live with me loving a woman. Some of my family supports me, some don’t.

My friends?

I don’t know. I’m just scared I’ll lose them. I haven’t had many friends, so I’m really scared of ending up alone.

I support everyone. I don’t care who they love or if they want to change their gender. I will always support people, no matter what.

But why am I being homophobic toward myself?

I didn’t deserve that.

But I just can’t get the words “I like girls” out of my mouth…

Maybe someday I’ll be able to live with it.

I’m just too scared.

I can’t accept my own feelings.

Again, I will say it: it’s one of the best books I have ever read, and I love the movie just as much.

It’s relatable.

But why, though?

I didn’t have the same life as Charlie. I mean, obviously I didn’t, but there are some parallels.

The phrase “I didn’t think anyone would notice me” really stuck in my brain.

Because not feeling seen is my life.

Always there, but never THERE.

Always walking in the shadows.

Always hiding, but not really hiding.

Always feeling different.

Feeling different?

Knowing something isn’t right with you. Like you’re not normal.

You just know something in your brain works differently than other people’s brains.

EMOTIONAL?

Is it bad?

Why do people say being emotional is bad? That it shows weakness?

It shows that you deeply care about things. About people. About everything.

But is it good?

I would say it is.

Deep down, I know that it really is exhausting to be emotional. Your emotions do whatever the hell they want to do.

You feel really happy.

You feel really sad.

You feel nothing at all.

You feel too much.

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

What’s wrong with my head? With my mind?

I feel this rush of emotions that switches in seconds, sometimes without any reason.

What do I do?

How do I keep them together?

How do I figure out why my brain works this way?

So much, but nothing at all.

It feels like a tornado in my head.

Constantly being exhausted.

And this is why I feel the book so much.

Charlie shows these patterns.

He shows that he doesn’t fit in.

He shows emotions, then he doesn’t.

Then he says things that shock others, and then he doesn’t know what to say.

It hits deeply.

Love Charlie.

(The one who knows, knows.)

People who have someone to cherish. Someone they can call their “soulmate.” Someone who would pick up the phone at 3 a.m. without thinking twice.

But why not me?

I know it sounds silly. It probably sounds like, “Oh my god, she’s just seeking attention.”

But I’m not.

No one really understands what it feels like to spend your whole life trying to be someone’s number one.

A friend.

A child.

A grandchild.

A best friend.

Just once, I want to know what it feels like to be someone’s first choice. Their emergency contact. The person they think of first when something happens. The person they would choose without hesitation.

Is it really that hard to find someone who feels that way about me?

I don’t know. Maybe this sounds pathetic. Maybe I’m just too sensitive about it. But I’ve spent so much of my life feeling like I was never quite as important as everyone else.

Especially in my family.

And I think that feeling runs deeper than I like to admit.

I don’t know why I constantly feel like I have to prove that I’m a good child. That I’m worth being proud of. That I deserve the same amount of love and attention. I do everything in my power to be the “good one,” the easy one, the one who doesn’t cause problems.

Because my brother needed more attention.

He was always the child everyone worried about. The one who talked about his problems. The one whose pain was visible.

And I never blamed him for that.

But just because I learned how to hide my pain better doesn’t mean I didn’t have any.

My feelings are still valid.

I just couldn’t bring myself to tell my mom that she has two children who need help. I couldn’t put another weight on her shoulders. So I swallowed everything instead. I became good at pretending I was okay, because someone had to be.

And maybe that’s why I’ve always cherished my friends so deeply.

I never wanted them to feel the way I did.

I never wanted them to question whether they were enough for me. I wanted them to know that I would choose them. That they mattered. That they were important to me.

Because I know exactly how painful it is to wonder if you matter to someone.

Maybe all I’ve ever wanted was to be someone’s person.

Not because I need attention.

Not because I want to be better than anyone else.

But because, for once, I want to stop wondering whether someone would choose me.

I want to be someone’s first thought.

Someone’s safe place.

Someone’s favorite person.

Idk what to do.

Do I tell someone? And if so, who?

I have this really good and understanding friendship. She’s honestly the sweetest, and I’m meeting her on Friday. I’ve been thinking about telling her that I SH, because I feel like maybe it would be good to finally tell someone. I haven’t talked to anyone about what I’ve been doing to myself for around five years because I just… idk, I don’t really know how to start talking about it.

So what should I do? What should I say? Do I just say, “You know, I’ve been self-harming for around five years”? I mean, I can’t just drop something like that out of nowhere, can I?

And I don’t know how she’ll react. She really is such a sweet person, though, and I’ve already talked to her about how I sometimes don’t feel very well and that I’ve had a difficult past. She was always a really good listener.

Is it crazy that I want them to see my scars? Is it?

Idk because to me it sounds silly but sometimes I think what if I wear that really short skirt so that they can se it so they do worry. But would it change a thing?

No.

Probably not, because when if they didn’t cared before they will not care now.

Maybe they will see you with other eyes that you just “crazy” but that doesn’t mean that anyone understands what you have been going through.

I always thought about it just to get comfort, just that people care more about me, but after all they will not they will just care if you end yourself…

THEY CARE WHEN ITS TO LATE.

Always.

Why?

Seems silly to me.

Because I did care how I felt.

I did care how they felt.

I DIDNT JUST CARED WHEN IT WAS TO LATE.

So it’s either iam just to sensitive about others wellbeing or iam not important to them.

Life just sucks, what the fuck should I do about it?

End it?

When will I get the answer to that. Do I need the answer why I should life? Do people without mental illnesses ask them stuff like that?

It feels like I’m trapped in this black hole. Every day, I manage to climb out just a little bit, a tiny step forward. But then something bad happens, or sometimes nothing happens at all, and I fall right back down into that deep, dark hole.

And no one is there to help me.

It’s like I have this barrier the moment I try to talk about my feelings. Always. I just can’t seem to get the words out.

I’m not sick enough. Just because it isn’t visible doesn’t mean it isn’t happening. So many people suffer in silence for years, struggling so badly that eventually they give up. And still, no one has the courage to truly ask, “How are you?” Not just on the surface, but deep down.

I ask all my friends how they’re doing. When something bad happens, they know I’m there for them. I would give everything to help someone who is suffering. I would hold them above the water so they don’t drown in their own thoughts.

Why do I always feel so tangled inside? Like someone tied my heart into knots so tight that no matter how hard I try, I can never untangle them. No matter what I achieve, it never feels like enough. It's as if I'm constantly trying to prove that I deserve to be seen.

People look at my life and think I'm doing fine. I graduated. I got a job. I keep going. To everyone else, those are just normal things that every healthy young adult is supposed to do. They don't see how hard I had to fight for every single step.

Growing up with a sibling who has special needs is something people rarely talk about. I don't blame my parents, and I know they love me. This isn't about who they love more. It's about who they had to worry about more.

My brother always needed more attention, more support, more care. I understand why. But somewhere along the way, I became the child who was expected to manage alone. The child who would be okay.

The problem is... I wasn't.

I just became better at hiding it.

People think that because you're quiet, because you don't ask for help, because you don't cry in front of them, you're not struggling. But pain doesn't disappear just because it's silent.

Every time I tried to express how I felt, I became "the angry child." The difficult one. The one who argues too much. What nobody ever saw was what happened afterward.

After every argument, I locked myself in my room or sat on the bathroom floor, crying until there were no tears left. Wondering why my feelings always seemed too much for everyone else but never enough to matter.

Being the child who copes is exhausting.

People praise you for being independent, but they never ask why you had to become independent so early. They celebrate your sibling's smallest achievements because they know how difficult they were. Meanwhile, your achievements become expectations. You stop being congratulated because people assume success comes naturally to you.

It doesn't.

I've just learned how to suffer quietly.

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to simply be a normal teenager. To laugh with friends without pretending everything is okay. To go to parties without carrying this weight inside my chest. To come home and feel understood instead of invisible.

I don't want a perfect life.

I don't want endless happiness.

I just want peace.

Instead, life feels like walking barefoot across broken glass. Every step hurts. Every wound gets a little deeper. Every time I think I'm finally moving forward, I find myself trapped in the same cycle all over again.

People always say, "It gets better."

Maybe they're right.

But what if you're tired of waiting?

What if you've spent years surviving while everyone keeps telling you that one day you'll finally start living?

Because the truth is... I don't want to spend my youth waiting for a future where I'm finally allowed to be happy.