Category Archives: Personal

Personal

I Carried It Alone

Even if they could pretend it never happened, I couldn’t. Even if she told me I shouldn’t tell people about it, I couldn’t help but speak. Because the one person who couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen was me. It happened to me. And I was dying for someone to see it. I was aching to be seen—held, embraced, even as my wounds were still bleeding. It had cut me in places I hadn’t even realized at the time. I was unaware that it would ache silently forever—for the part of me that died.

I was too young to know any better. So when I told people, maybe they didn’t see it as something that happened to me. Maybe they just saw what I had become after. And because that’s how they saw me, that’s how I began to see myself too: utterly ruined.

I shouldn’t be thinking about it now, but it’s Monday again—my weekly therapy day. Last session ended with us unpacking that trauma, and I’ve been left to reflect. To remember how it felt. To remember how it happened.

But all week, I didn’t really drown in it. I don’t think I even tried. I’m wired to push it down. And I do it so well that I start to ask myself—was what happened really that big of a deal?

These are the memories I never sat down to recall, just kept running from. So much so that I barely remember half of it. I just remember myself, standing there—dead inside. On the outside, I barely moved. I swear I had no movement of my own. Everything was done to me. I was fifteen. My life hadn’t even properly started, and I already felt ruined.

It felt like the ultimate betrayal. Like I had betrayed myself. Like I had failed to protect me. I felt responsible. I had been manipulated and isolated so completely, I didn’t even believe there were people who could—or would—save me. So I quietly endured it. Months of abuse, manipulation, and hostility.

That one thing that happened became the cornerstone of everything else that followed. It shaped me. It shaped my relationships. It shaped the relationship I had with myself. The trauma alone was unbearable—but the second-hand trauma, the one from never being allowed to process or speak of it properly, was even heavier. My behaviors became patterns—trauma responses I didn’t even recognize until now, seventeen years later. Longer than I had been alive when it happened to me. The trauma is older than I was when it first occurred.

I was forced to bury the pain so deep that I began questioning it. Did it really hurt? That planted the seeds of a lifelong struggle. Not having anyone validate my trauma meant I started doubting everything. While others moved on, I stayed frozen. Broken. And this became the beginning of me questioning reality itself. Was what I felt real, or was it all in my head?

My thoughts split into two ends, always pulling at each other. I could never quite be sure of anything. And that uncertainty—of myself, of my own mind—felt like a curse. My sense of self failed to exist.

I was never taught to love myself. So I never really valued me. I barely even saw me. I didn’t care about how I felt. I was conditioned to overlook myself, and others followed suit. I was invisible. And for the rest of my teenage years and into my twenties, I only saw myself through the eyes of others. If they didn’t see me, I didn’t exist. Their validation was my only evidence of being alive.

Surely, there couldn’t have been a worse way to live through those years—but that’s how they were.

And maybe—just maybe—the reason I give so many chances to people who hurt me is because I had to forgive my perpetrators. And if I can live with that, how hard can the rest be?

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Personal

The Stillness That Waited for Me

I dreaded coming home—to the stillness, the emptiness.
Nothing had really changed, except that he wasn’t there anymore.

Work was its usual chaos. Deadlines. Noise. Stress. And yet, somehow, the world felt unbearably still. As if everything had paused the moment he left. With the idea of him gone, everything felt dull. Pointless. He was a small sense of purpose in my life—and even if it was small, it was still something. Maybe I did love him. Maybe that’s what this is.

I’ve asked myself this question a hundred times: is it love? Or just the anxious, insecure part of me panicking at the loss of connection? Is this grief or just withdrawal from the only kind of closeness I’ve ever known?

I walked for hours today. My feet ache. I took the longest route home, just to avoid the moment I’d have to face this version of reality—the one where he’s no longer part of it.

I bought flowers on the way. I don’t know why. I guess I wanted to feel like something beautiful still existed. But now, as they wilt in the vase, I can barely look at them. Their fading feels like mine. A quiet, painful reminder of everything slipping.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s not just about a boy. Not entirely. Not even mostly.
It’s about the weight I carry. The kind of pain that existed long before he ever did.
He didn’t fix me. He didn’t save me. But when he was around, I didn’t feel so alone in my brokenness. I didn’t feel like I was rotting in silence.

And now, that changes.

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Personal

Is It Too Late to Dream of Love?

Is there an age where it becomes embarrassing to still want the love you dream of? A quiet shame that creeps in when you find yourself hoping for a fairytale ending—like if it hasn’t happened by now, maybe it never will?

I don’t think it’s about a lack of options. It’s not that there aren’t enough men in the world. But there’s definitely a scarcity of men with the right intentions. And I’ll be the first to admit—sometimes I don’t even let the kind ones in. The ones who are gentle, who show up, who don’t play games. My heart rarely ignites for them. And maybe that’s on me.

This is the paradox I live in.

I fall for those who unsettle me. Who throw my nervous system into chaos. Because that’s what love looked like to me growing up. Unpredictable. Unstable. It’s what I knew. It’s what felt familiar. So now, when someone comes along and treats me with genuine care, I often feel… nothing. No spark. No pull. Just a strange hollowness.

Because healthy love feels boring. Steady feels boring. And god, how I envy the people who flourish in peace—those who are at ease when things get calm, when love slows down, becomes routine, becomes real.

The love I’ve known is messy and loud and intoxicating. At first, it feels like a high. The uncertainty, the chase, the edge—it keeps me awake. It keeps me wanting. It feels like the only kind of love that exists for me.

And I hate that.

Living with a personality disorder doesn’t define me, but it shapes me. It shapes how I love, how I attach, how I respond to safety and chaos. I’m not trying to make it my identity, but I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t left fingerprints all over my life.

At some point, you have to be honest with yourself. Maybe I’m just wired differently. Maybe what’s supposed to feel like home never quite will. Maybe my kind of love exists outside the lines of normal—and that’s something I’m still learning to sit with.

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Personal

Digital Fatigue

Don’t you ever wish we could disconnect? Not from the people we love, but from the constant pressure to always be available, always reachable, always “on.”

We live in a time where everything is just a tap away. The world has advanced so quickly. Technology has brought us ease, speed, and connection like never before. But along with that, it has quietly added a new kind of weight to our lives. A subtle but persistent expectation to stay online, to reply immediately, to be present at all times. It’s exhausting, even if we don’t always realize it.

Sure, we can silence our phones. We can decide to reply to messages later. We can take breaks when we feel overwhelmed. But even then, it doesn’t feel like a true pause. The pressure lingers in the background, quietly whispering that you’re falling behind, that someone is waiting on you. It has become so embedded into our routines that separating from it feels nearly impossible.

Sometimes I miss the simplicity of landlines. The feeling of calling someone and not reaching them. The sweetness of missing someone you couldn’t talk to instantly. There was something tender about the waiting, the anticipation, the distance. Now, we take the instant nature of communication for granted. Messages fly back and forth all day, yet the feeling behind them often feels diluted.

Lately, I’ve been craving slower, more intentional moments. I want to say, “Let’s meet Wednesday at eight,” and know we’ll both be there without confirming a dozen times. I want to go back to making plans and trusting them. I want to lessen the quantity of interactions and bring back the quality. Not every moment needs to be filled with updates or check-ins. Sometimes, it’s okay to just be, and then show up when it matters.

I miss the depth that came from space and silence. From time apart. From having stories to tell because you hadn’t spoken in a while. These days, it feels like we’re constantly talking, but rarely saying anything meaningful.

I don’t know if anyone else feels this way. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Maybe it’s burnout. Maybe it’s just me wanting to experience connection on my own terms again — more quality, less quantity. Something slower. One that doesn’t depend on constant notifications, but instead is built on trust, presence, and care.

Or is that too 90s of me?

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Personal

Trusting with Tremors

They say without trust, a relationship is as good as dead — and I fully agree.
But what about when you still believe in the good in someone?
What about when you see the change, however small?
What about when their effort doesn’t erase the past, but makes you pause and wonder — maybe… maybe this could still work?

So what do we do with broken trust?

I’ve tried to heal from it. I’ve also tried to survive it. I’ve gone through his phone more times than I want to admit. Found nothing I loved — but everything that made just enough sense to leave me confused instead of angry. That strange in-between space. Not guilty, not innocent. Just human.

Still, if you decide to stay with someone who once broke your trust, it’s a risk and a burden you willingly sign up for.
And once you sign up for it, maybe it’s time to stop looking over your shoulder — and start looking for solutions.

I used to check his location.
Not because I didn’t know where he was — but because I needed proof that he still chose me, even when I wasn’t watching. It became a crutch. A tiny screen I used to soothe a massive ache.

But I don’t want to live like that anymore.
I want to learn to trust.
Not blindly — but bravely.
Not all at once — but one gentle, terrifying step at a time.

Rebuilding trust isn’t romantic.
It’s slow, repetitive, and exhausting.
It requires presence, consistency, and repair.
But I believe it’s possible — just like love after loss, or laughter after grief.
It might take time. It might take him showing up in the moments I used to panic.
It might take new memories that are wonderful enough to outnumber the haunting ones.
But I want to try.

So this is my new mission:
To rebuild trust.
To let him be.
To free myself from the weight of suspicion.
Not for him. For me.

I want to love without surveillance.
I want to breathe without fear.
I want to trust again — even if my hands are still shaking.

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Personal

Relapse

I was left with this burning shame in my chest, the kind that clings to your skin like sweat. My anxiety went through the roof. I couldn’t breathe for a minute. I wanted to disappear, rewind the morning, run.

But here’s the thing—even in the messiest moments, all you can be is honest.

Yes, sometimes the brave thing isn’t to stay away. Sometimes the brave thing is to admit I slipped. I broke my own boundary. I sought closure in a place that’s only ever given me chaos.

We talk about healing like it’s this clean, upward slope. But sometimes, healing looks like making the same mistake again—with more awareness this time.

I wanted answers. But what I got instead was the truth I’ve been avoiding, some things won’t ever make sense.

Our nervous systems aren’t built for logic—they’re built for survival. And sometimes, survival looks like chasing what hurt us, just to soothe the confusion.

So here I am. Embarrassed. Hurt. But honest.

And maybe that’s enough for today.

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Personal

Letters From My Mind

The Permission to Lean In

Is it okay if I start leaning a little more into my diagnosis?

It’s been four years since I was diagnosed, and for most of that time, I’ve done everything I could to distance myself from it. I treated it like a side trait — something minor, something manageable — like if I just ignored it enough, it would stay quiet. But lately, nothing makes sense. Or maybe, everything has stopped pretending to make sense.

And I’ve slowly come to realise that nothing will make sense until I understand my nervous system. Until I stop resisting and start accepting. Until I fully lean in. Until I embrace this diagnosis — not as a limitation, but as a map.

I didn’t lean in earlier because I was scared. Scared that if I accepted it, I’d use it as a crutch. That I’d start excusing my behaviour with it, that it would define me, swallow me, and become my whole personality. I didn’t want to be a walking diagnosis. I didn’t want to be the wreck I feared I was.

And if I’m being honest, it’s also because of how misunderstood all of this still is — especially here. People are just starting to grasp what depression is. Anxiety is beginning to be taken seriously. But anything beyond that? It’s like speaking a language no one around you understands. You say “emotional dysregulation” and they hear “dramatic.” You say “fear of abandonment” and they hear “clingy.”

So I’ve been carrying this quietly — because I didn’t want to be seen as mentally ill. I didn’t want to wear that label.

But does this diagnosis make life harder? Sometimes, yes.
Does it make me feel broken? Often.
Is it okay to not be okay?
I’m trying to believe that it is.

Because this weight I carry — this invisible thing that suffocates, pulls, claws at my sense of safety — it’s real. And I’m tired of pretending it’s not.

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Personal

Burnt Out, Still Breathing

How has it been months since I last wrote?


It honestly shocks me. Writing was my anchor—my way of coping, healing, surviving. Not being able to write has felt like a slow erosion of my identity, like I’ve been silently mourning parts of myself.

As always, I had planned to clear my drafts before the new year. Start fresh. But right before the new year, everything fell apart. I went through some of the worst online harassment I’ve ever faced. It left me bed-ridden, in shock. Something I loved—someone I was—felt attacked. And from people I once felt safe with. That betrayal broke something in me. And it didn’t stop there—it just kept getting worse. So I retreated. I stopped being vulnerable. I stopped writing. I stopped making sense of my emotions. It felt pointless.

November was rough too. Honestly, it all started unraveling around August. I wanted it to be a beautiful season—new beginnings, maybe even love. And yes, I did fall in love. But I wasn’t loved back—not in the way I deserved. I was told I was loved, but I never really felt it. Everything I experienced said otherwise. Still, I held on. I compromised, I bargained, I hoped—until I nearly lost myself. Actually, I did. That relationship left me with wounds I’m still learning to name. And what hurts most is that I silenced myself for someone else. I didn’t write about what I went through because I wanted to protect them. And in doing that, I betrayed me. I don’t remember half of what happened, but my body does. It’s strange—how trauma lingers in muscles and skin, even when the mind forgets.

Then came February. And it was brutal. Shattered glass, wilted flowers—everything I once loved felt destroyed. I had started detaching in January, little by little. I knew I had to. That relationship was tearing me apart. And detaching—choosing myself—that was hard. I kept slipping back, reasoning with myself, battling emotions with logic. But one day, I said it: It’s over.

I ended it. I burned the bridge. Because I knew if I didn’t, I might walk back. And I couldn’t afford to. I had finally chosen myself. But life doesn’t slow down to let you process. Almost immediately, someone new appeared. Too soon, really. But I was so drained from the last relationship, I didn’t feel like grieving. I just wanted to be happy. And when he said he’d make me happy, I jumped. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was vulnerable. I was still the hopeless romantic who wanted to believe in good endings. But right before my birthday, that too fell apart. He wasn’t who he said he was.

And yet, I wouldn’t let him ruin my birthday.
I told myself no man was worth that.

Then my birthday came. My ex resurfaced, asking for another chance. And there I was—a girl just trying to be happy. So, I gave in. Not because I was healed, not because I had clarity, but because I was tired. I didn’t even get the time to grieve what had ended. But grief doesn’t wait. It caught up with me. It always does.

And now, here I am.
Burnt out.

All I want to do is sleep. Nothing excites me. There’s a void inside me that dulls everything around me. The joy is gone. And yet, I’m overwhelmed by responsibilities I can’t escape. I’m too tired to keep up appearances, too drained to keep every commitment. But I’m still trying. Maybe not as much as I used to. But with whatever I have left.

And that has to be enough for now.

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Personal

My day was so sad today. My heart felt heavy all day, and to top it off, when it started raining, I realized the rain made me happy. I didn’t bother finding shade and let it drench me completely.

I love rain in a way that most people don’t. When it rains, my first thought is, OMG, let’s go out! That’s exactly what happened tonight, on an already terrible day. Everything was going horribly wrong, overstimulating me and leaving me mentally numb.

It started with a voiceover recording, after which I couldn’t get a cab for what felt like forever. I was stranded in the middle of Majeedi Magu, sweating and dying of embarrassment from all the rejection. Every cab I tried to hail ignored me.

Finally, after what felt like ages, I managed to get one. The driver even stopped at my house so I could run in and pee before heading to Hulhumalé for another work thing. That tiny act of kindness—bare minimum, really—felt like a lifeline. It touched my soul in ways I didn’t expect.

Later, after my work thing, it started raining lightly. I thought I could find some shade under a tree, so I stepped out and kept walking. But the tree didn’t help, and soon I was completely soaked. The place I wanted to eat at was about a block away from the park I was in, but the park itself was huge. So I walked, in heavy rain, drenched to the bone. I must’ve looked miserable, but somehow, it made me happy.

Two women offered to share their umbrella with me, and it warmed my heart. I refused, of course, but the gesture meant the world to me.

The streak of things going wrong continued. I finally reached the restaurant I’d been thinking about all day. Since my cards were expired, I asked if they accepted transfers. They said no. Just like that, I had to walk out and sit outside, feeling wet, sad, miserable, and hopeless. No cab would take me because I was soaked, and it was still drizzling. I didn’t have anyone I could call to pick me up. I think I cried a little.

Then, one of the servers came out and told me to come in—they would make an exception for me. My heart leapt, like a child seeing candy. I thanked him and went inside.

I’d been craving steak all week, and they were one of the few places that served it. I ordered so much—I was sad. The meal was incredible, even though I cried here and there. It was just one of those days. But I loved the food.

Finally, when it was time to pay, I got the bill with a note saying it had already been paid by someone. He’d left his number in case I wanted to thank him. I couldn’t believe it. I’d been feeling lonely and uncared for all day, and a stranger—someone I’ll probably never see again—did that for me.

Most people might find it creepy, but for someone who hasn’t been loved properly, it felt like magic. It honestly made my day. It gave me hope that the universe puts me where I need to be at the right time so it can work its wonders.

That was my day—sad and rainy, but damn, I loved the rain. When I came home, it was still raining. I got wet again just getting inside. Once in my room, I changed out of my wet clothes, lit a candle, dried my hair, crawled into bed, and started watching F Is for Family until I passed out.

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Personal

Some days, I don’t know how to be stronger, braver, or louder.

I feel guilty when I break down in front of people. I question whether I’m doing it for their attention or if I truly feel sad. Even when I’m physically and mentally falling apart, I still question if it’s real at all.

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