KB

I’m doing a health psychology course this semester, and today, our professor asked us to write a personal illness narrative. It’s like the story of an illness that you’ve encountered—how you got it, how you feel about it, how you healed up, that kinda stuff.

I tried really hard, but I just couldn’t think of anything better than the burnout that I’m feeling these days. So, that’s the narrative that I went ahead with. But, halfway through this little activity, I found out… that I really didn’t want to label myself as ill. I really didn’t want to believe that something was actually wrong with me these days, even though I’d already begun writing about it as an illness. I simply didn’t give it enough thought, probably, or I’d subconsciously accepted the fact that something is wrong.

Throughout the little two-hundred-word handwritten essay, there were two forces inside of me. One that wanted me to write down every single damn thing that’s been happening with me and break the fuck down on the spot, in the middle of the lecture. And another that wanted me to hold it all inside, because I knew that these people cannot be trusted with my feelings.

What came out was such a mess of an essay. It felt like I was bitching about just some random stuff, y’know, because the emotions were there, but not the actual symptoms that I was so emotional about. So, I decided that I gotta write about it. Just to look a little deep inside.

And probably face some facts here.

***

So, what’s wrong with me?

Well, as to begin: I cannot sleep these nights. I hit the bed at eleven, yet I’m awake till two AM or even three AM sometimes. I overthink all night long. And then I wake up at seven.

At this point, I don’t even know if I’m overthinking because I cannot sleep, or if I cannot sleep because I’m overthinking. All I know is that I cannot sleep—and I’m having a lot of negative thoughts lately.

I feel tired all day, because I hadn’t slept in the night. I doze off during lectures. I doze off when I’m writing. In fact, my eyes are still a little heavy as I write this. I hate this so damn much.

My schedule is really tight, and I have a lot of stuff to do. All the assigned papers, assignments, and then gym, my novel, and this blog.

I just… I don't know why, but for some reason, I never feel good. I never feel okay. Sometimes, talking with friends helps, but I don’t have a lot of close friends here. Most of them are just those kinda friends that you talk to when you see each other in the corridor. That means my lunches and dinners are lonely.

And, if you know anything from my first An Ode blog, you’d know I’ve messed up my image here way too much. People don't talk to me. They ignore me. The fact that most of them are a lot richer than me doesn't help my confidence.

I feel like I’m losing myself in this mess. I don’t feel motivated about my novel at all. And… that scares the fuck outta me. I edited just four pages last time I worked on it. And that was around a week ago.

This… is my life’s work. Myth is my life’s work. I can’t let it go like this.

And I’m in a really delicate situation in my life, where I have to think about my career after this degree is done. I gotta think about the stuff I’m doing, and I gotta stay motivated. But instead, I’m facing this intense burnout from my own fucking life that I cannot even concentrate. I’m always either sleeping or scrolling Instagram.

I’ve almost stopped reading fiction altogether. And that’s another thing that scares me. I’m changing. I feel like I’m doing nothing at all, yet I don’t get time to do anything. I don’t even get enough time to watch my favorite anime or read some novels. It’s been almost a month since I last watched a film.

My schedule is tight, and I love to keep it that way. It helps me with my anxiety. Because this loneliness is killing me, and if I don’t know what to do the next moment, I’d torture myself. I don’t wanna face these thoughts that I have.

Last week, I got really close with a girl. I could open up to her, and… I confessed my feelings. She rejected me, and since then, there’s this… sort of distance between us. I can feel it as we talk. I mean, she acts fine. But for me, I just can’t look past it.

I didn’t expect her to say yes either, by the way. I knew what I was signing up for. I simply had to get it out to feel better, because hiding it was tiring. It was hurting. And I was in too much pain to hold it back.

And, well, we didn’t talk for some days. And now I can’t look her in the eyes when we do. When I see her from afar, I just feel so… bad. For what I did. Not only to myself, but to… whatever it was between us.

But it probably meant nothing to her anyways.

It meant a lot to me, though. She was one of the only people I actually opened up to, after all. Shared all of my darkest thoughts. Only to fuck it all up.

I’m just so miserable. I can’t even believe it. She said I’d find someone better, and I thought she meant it. No, she obviously didn’t. Nobody ever fucking says that in a rejection and means it.

My friends say the same, though. They say I look a lot better than most. I hit the gym, take care of my skin and hair. I’d get better girls. But I simply cannot believe it. Because what’s happening with me is the exact opposite—I get rejected every time I try. And then handed lies and excuses.

I hate love, and I hate the fact that I yearn for it.

Now that I think about it, I hate emotions as a whole. I hate feeling anything. I hate feeling hurt when my crush is talking about her ex, I hate feeling lonely when I’m eating at one corner of the mess by myself, I hate feeling depressed when I’m alone in a classroom like I am right now, doing my own stuff by myself.

It hurts. It hurts a fuck lot in here.

***

Now that I think about it, I feel like… I seriously need some help. But it’s not my fucking fault, is it? It’s not supposed to be my fucking fault that I’m so broken and miserable.

Then… why do I have to fix myself?

Why did I ever have to be in this mess? I was just a child dreaming of a cool college life. I wanted to try drinking, clubbing, partying—all that shit. I wanted to have good friends who would kill for me. I wanted a girlfriend who would love me back with all her heart, just like I did. I wanted to be in a place I was comfortable in and I could enjoy.

I wanted a home too.

I wanted a fucking home too. I was just a kid who fucked up once. Do I really deserve all this for that shit?

I didn't sign up for this. This social exclusion is killing me. This life is killing me from inside.

I don’t dream anymore. I don’t think about the future anymore. I can only think of the next hour, the next task, the next day.

It’s time I face the truth. It’s time I tell this to myself: you’re sick.

Yeah, Dhruv, you’re ill.

This disease will kill you if you don’t do anything about it. You know how low you’ve been, and you can’t afford to go this low again. I can’t afford to keep obsessing over what-if-I-die daydreams. Get a fucking grip on your life.

Remember Myth. Remember your dream of being a psychologist. Remember your gym training. Remember your parents, friends—they’re all behind you. They’re waiting for you to win.

And I seriously wanna win. But… isn’t asking for help losing by itself? Doesn’t it mean that I lost to these people? That I couldn’t prove myself right? That… I gave up to their social shunning shit?

Does it matter? Your family might never know this story, and your friends would keep lamenting your loss. Is that what you wanna leave behind, Dhruv? A bunch of people crying over your corpse?

I certainly won’t do that, but it’s not about them. It’s about me. And, if I feel like this is gonna help my case, then I should probably go ahead with this plan. Then I should probably take the step.

Will this help your case, though? Isn’t that a kinda defeat either?

… It is. But I’m tired. I gotta accept that I’ve lost.

Then go ask for help.

I tried. I called them first. They refused to pick up. I tried to settle in. They’re way too different from me. I can never be like them—and nor do I want to be. I can’t fake-it-till-you-make-it. I tried. I fucking tried every fucking thing. It’s been a whole year, for damn’s sake. Do you really think I’d have not tried?

No, you’re wrong. I did. I tried. I tried everything to try to settle in. But the more I did, the worse it kept getting. Every single damn time. My roommate tried to choke me. My friend refused to pick up my calls anymore. A girl now tries her best to bring things back to normal, but I’m in her way, even though I want the same thing.

I’m my own problem. Or, this whole place is. But whatever the problem is, all I know is that I don’t know the answer to it. I wasn’t supposed to live a life like this.

I want the other person to call me up on their own sometime. Ask me for dinner. Invite me for a group study. Or to even send a fucking hello.

***

I can’t believe it, to be honest. A year ago, I wouldn’t have believed that I’d be so low in my life—simply because a bunch of my peers hate me. It doesn’t make sense.

I do have friends—just not on this campus. I do have a home—just not on this campus. I do have a life—just not on this campus.

But it’s hard to look at them now. I want them close to me. After a tiring battle, I wanna be back home and sleep in my own bed every night. I don’t get to do that, though.

I wonder if everything will ever be fine again. I gotta do a Master's after this degree, and even work. Will I ever fit in there? Or does this cycle of suffering continue until the end of my life?

If it’s the latter, I might end it as soon as possible.

I’m writing this for myself.

I’ve been going through a lot lately. I can’t sleep, I can’t concentrate. I keep making these scenarios in my head that will never come true. I keep thinking about stuff that I know I can’t do anything about. I keep believing that one day, everything will be fine when I know it won’t.

Sometimes, we know the truth, yet we cannot accept it.

My university life is never getting better. I’m going to be this lonely for three more years. And considering everything that has happened last year, I’m scared how I’m gonna survive three more years of this shit. I’m so tired already.

I can go hours without talking to anybody. Sometimes I don’t even realize I’m thirsty until I get to speak to someone. And I feel like I’ve forgotten how to talk. I can only ask questions, never change topics or add anything meaningful to the conversation. It’s been so much time since I’ve cursed with the boys and laughed so happily.

I thought it doesn’t matter if I cannot fit in here. I know why people think shit about me. I know why I can’t simply get the confidence. I’m not that rich, that sophisticated, or that good-looking.

But, I simply can’t accept the truth. When I talk to somebody new, I still dream about things finally getting better. All I get, in the end, is false hope, though.

People have heard my side of the story. They know what the fuck is happening with me. Yet, they don’t care. They won’t text or call or check in. Only my highschool friends do that, and they’re so far away.

Everything is so hard. And it’s taken a toll on my productivity. I cannot study—my marks are down the drain. But I can’t care much about it now. With brutal honesty, writing is all I care about in my life right now. But it seems like as everything gets over my head, I’m losing my grip on that too.

I understand you, Dhruv. I fucking understand you. I know what you’re going through. I know shit hasn’t changed yet, and that’s why you’re reading this.

I’m writing this to remind you why you began writing. Because you’re seriously forgetting it.

Remember the first time you picked up the notebook with Spyral Diary written on its back. Remember what you’d decided when you opened your laptop that evening.

I’m gonna publish this. And become the best writer in the country.

Isn’t that what you decided upon? On twenty-fourth August, twenty-twenty. It’s gonna be five years since you saw that dream.

You were just a child, addicted to anime. You loved Tokyo Ghoul, and you saw the references in Spyral Diary. Attack on Titan, Parasyte, Monster, Your Lie in April, Anohana—you’d seen them all. They’re the anime that you can never re-watch again, because the memories you associate with them are just too nostalgic. Don’t forget them, Dhruv.

No, don’t cry. Not right now. We have a lot to talk about.

That’s when Myth was born, Dhruv. That’s when you began writing this story. As you’ve grown up, this story has grown with you. You’d finally felt confident enough in your writing that you began working on what you call your magnum opus. Togashi-sensei’s Hunter x Hunter, Isayama-sensei’s Attack on Titan, Ishida-sensei’s Tokyo Ghoul, Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, Riordan’s Percy Jackson: The Lightning Thief.

Dhruv Kumaar’s Myth.

The one story that was gonna take you to the top. The one story that you’d be known for. The one story that had been on the back of your mind for years.

The one story you’d decided you won’t write until you’re good enough. The one story that you’ve been preparing yourself for all these years.

That’s what Myth is to us, man. That’s what Myth is.

As you grew up, you gave up on the idea of ever getting an anime adaptation. You shifted your focus to just writing and publishing a great story. A story that nobody had ever written before.

We’re writing an epic here, man. Yeah, we’ve fucked up so much, but that’s fine. We can work on our mistakes. We can re-write. But what we cannot do is back down. What we cannot do is scrap this project.

The times are hard, yeah. You have a lot to think about. You have a lot that you should be scared about, and rightfully so. But… don’t forget Myth. Don’t forget what it means to you.

It’s been months since we’ve had any meaningful development in the project. Seems like life always finds a way to get in the way. It’s not right. Why us? Why the fuck are we stuck in this shit?

You regret every single second you breathe here. And yeah, if the breathing stops, your regret might stop too. But you cannot think this way. It’s not your fault, so why would you pay with your life?

And that’s okay. Even though it’s not our fault, it’s still something that needs fixing. So rather focus on how we can fix it than crying every night over what’s wrong.

You can try getting that attention all you want. Push yourself at the gym, punch those bricked walls, and bleed everywhere you want to. Red calluses and knuckles are invisible to others. Nobody here gives a single fuck. Not even the people you think would give one don’t. And you know it. You know how people have left you even after you opened up. You know how it goes with you. You know you’re just another misfit for them and you’ll always be that and nothing else.

Nobody is gonna ask you how you got those bruises. And even if they do, you don’t trust them enough to tell them you made them yourself.

This works. All of this bleeding and crying works for some time, even though it leaves you worse in the end. And that’s okay. But let’s focus on what works here, on your Google Docs, too. We’re done scolding ourselves and our fate.

Yeah, we’d spiral back into those thoughts again. And I don’t know what I’m talking about. But I have to keep talking. I have to keep typing. And that’s what you have to do too.

Keep writing. Don’t forget that fifteen-year-old Dhruv who first picked up his father’s laptop and soon made it his. Don’t forget the kid who fought so hard against his family, who went through all those taunts of you’re-not-getting-anywhere, who has been giving it his all, and who has stood up through thick-and-thin for years to keep writing.

Two hours every day. These two hours of the day are yours, Dhruv. For years, it has stayed like this. It has not changed and it never will.

You’re going through a lot of stuff. And I know that we can keep it aside and move on. I hate to say this, but you’re still optimistic.

You can’t lose that, man. Your mother got that optimism—it’s in your fucking blood to keep hoping for the good. Your heart is gonna break several times. But even though we fall, we can rise up again.

Do it for the kid, man. Do it for the kid who loves Tokyo Ghoul, who is still searching for those adrenaline-filled action with emotional depth. Do it for the kid whose whole life revolved around writing. Do it for the kid who gave it his all to be here.

He’s still alive inside you. You can never lose that child. Remember his smile. Remember his happiness. Remember his passion.

Just push yourself. Keep your head up straight. Think about the future, not about the past. You’ve forgotten to do that. But we can cultivate the habit again.

Think about being successful. Think about the life you’ve dreamed of—the one filled with love and care. The one where you’re not just the giver, but an acceptor too. Where you can open up and be the best version of yourself.

Yeah, that’s it. Fuck this university. Don’t think about it. The university has made you forget what writing means to you. It’s revolving around your life too much. Take the control back, man. It’s your life, and even though you live inside this university, your life is not this university.

1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..

2. x reader consumers getting WAY to entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.

at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.

i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️

this!!! i completely forgot to mention this!!! so many anon bots have been treating authors like some robots who HAVE to post fanfics 24/7!! happened to my lovely talented mutuals too. you do nothing to contribute to the community or support the authors, you don't like, don't reblog, you don't leave a comment and then you think you get a say in what others will write or get mad that someone's writing style doesn't match the one you like.