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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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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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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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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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How much damage must you have endured to become reluctant to ask for what’s rightfully yours?

Asking for things has never been my thing. It’s not that I don’t want things—I do. But over time, I’ve convinced myself that I don’t. I’ve never really gotten the things I wanted, and that made me feel like a loser. So now, I just don’t ask.

Growing up, my parents didn’t really get me anything I asked for. They led me to believe I had to earn it. And even though I performed so well in school, I never quite earned it in their eyes. Maybe they couldn’t afford it, or maybe they didn’t want to. Either way, it shaped me.

The truth is, I do want things—so many things. But I don’t even buy them for myself because I feel like there will always be more important things to prioritize.

I’ve received gifts before, things I didn’t ask for and didn’t think I wanted, but I ended up loving them. That made me realize it’s not that I don’t want things. It’s that I don’t want to break my own heart by wanting things I might never afford or by asking for something I may never get.

I can’t even find the courage to ask for what’s mine. That’s just who I am.

Anyway, I passed all my modules—yay! I want someone to be ecstatic for me, over the moon. I know my thesis is still pending, but this in itself is huge for me. And the one person I was excited enough to share this with didn’t even acknowledge it.

That broke my heart.

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Lord knows I’ve been in love before. I’ve cried on the mat, tears streaming down my face, fully distraught, praying for callbacks and text messages, praying they’d find love in their hearts for me as I had for them. So why is it that, after all that, this time feels like I’m in love for the very first time?

I never tire of his presence. I’ve been in love before, but I’ve never met someone whom I didn’t need time to recharge away from. Usually, after a few days, I’d need to come home and have time to myself, but with him, it feels like he’s a part of me. Being with him is as enjoyable as my own company, if not better. Oh, I think—they call this love?

We fight, but he forgets it quickly. My attitude blows over, and I surrender to his love. I can’t even stay mad at him. I care for him so deeply that I understand him to his core. Every step he takes, even if in the wrong direction sometimes, I understand where his heart comes from. Before he loved me, before all of this, he was human first, and I’m in love with all his flaws, just as he loves mine. He actually said it to me one day, and I thought—that’s wonderful.

There’s little I wouldn’t do for this man. He’s the exception to every rule.

Now, am I worried I might end up hurt? Terrified, to be honest. But sometimes I sit back and think, this moment is worth it. I’ve found little happiness in this world, and he makes me immensely happy. That’s more valuable than anything.

And how funny is it, that it took me forever to feel sure about people, about commitment, to feel certain I would love them every day—until I met him. With everyone else, I always wondered, even if I felt deeply for them in the moment, if I’d still love them the next day. Rarely did I find the faith in myself that I would, and often, I lied to myself and struggled through days when I didn’t feel the same way. I accepted that this is how relationships worked—that you didn’t love them every day, that some days you pretend. I was always in awe of the couples who made their relationships last through years, as mine barely lasted one.

But with him, I can’t imagine a day when I won’t love him. It just happened, without much effort. Maybe that’s what falling in love really is—one day you just fall, and everything is different. All the rules and expectations you had of love crumble because it’s nothing like you thought it would be; it’s better. In a way you can’t quite describe—it’s just better. And I pray I never lose this love.

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Holding you in my arms feels like I’m holding my whole world—so fragile, so precious. I realize I’ve never tried hard enough in any of my relationships, but with you, I surrender.

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