You want to know pain?

I will tell you about pain.

For a long time I was getting more and more frustrated every day, living in a constant state of uncertainty. Waiting for the floor to fall through at any minute. It felt like walking on a tightrope when my balance was already awful.

I was fighting for my life.

But I knew I loved him. I knew I loved him enough to put myself through it. And somewhere in the back of my mind I believed that if I could survive the mess we were in, we would eventually reach a happier place together. A calmer place. A place where everything would finally make sense.

I thought that would be our forever.

So I pushed myself to be strong. I told myself to be patient. Even when I knew I was betraying myself in the process, I believed it would be worth it. I believed he would eventually love me enough to make up for everything I had endured.

I was so certain about my love.

The only thing I was never certain about was whether he would choose me.

Until the very last minute, I did not know.

He prolonged the uncertainty. He delayed decisions. He let the tension stretch day after day while I carried emotions that were heavier than anything I had ever carried before.

Eventually, like any human being pushed to the edge, I imploded.

And the worst part was that I imploded alone.

I was isolated even in my collapse. I was not loved in that moment. I received very little compassion. When I think about it now, it still hurts. I remember feeling like I was being buried underground, like sand was being thrown over me while I was still breathing beneath it.

I felt lower than low.

I felt more alone than I had ever felt in my life.

For two days after that moment, I sank deeper into myself. I tried to stay afloat, but it felt inevitable that I would drown.

And in that darkness, instead of being lifted up, I was given even more pain.

You know the phrase about kicking someone when they are already down? Even that does not fully describe the hell I experienced.

Eventually I stopped fighting.

I needed escape. I needed relief. I needed anything other than the unbearable feeling sitting in my chest.

Anything but that.

So at 3:40 in the morning, on the 25th of November 2024, I did something I had sworn I would never do again. Something I had not done in over a decade. Something I had always been too afraid to repeat.

But that night the pain was greater than fear.

And I bled.

I watched myself bleed. I watched the pain sink into my body and, for a moment, I allowed myself to become numb.

I did not think it through. I was not in a place where thinking was possible. I just needed to escape the awful way he had made me feel. His abusive words were still ringing in my ears. I was still in disbelief that after all the love I had given him, this was how I was being repaid.

And then suddenly it was too late.

Blood stained the pages that should have been filled with ink. A strange, dark aesthetic formed in front of me. My pain had created its own visual memory.

A tragic snapshot of the moment.

But the thing is, it did not stop.

I thought it would stop. It did not.

That was when panic set in.

What do I do now? Who do I call?

And the truth was that I had no one.

I certainly could not call the person whose words had pushed me so far into that darkness.

So, terrified, I pulled myself together and went to the emergency room alone.

I had to. I did not have a choice.

Calling a cab and walking into that hospital was one of the most humiliating moments of my life. I felt helpless. I felt ashamed.

Why did I do this? How did I let myself fall so far down?

Had I not promised myself years ago that I would never return to that place?

Had I not promised my younger self that we would do better?

Oh God. I am so sorry.

I walked into the ER and showed them my wounds.

I was not prepared for the look in their eyes. The pity. The sadness. The concern. I was trying so hard to appear strong despite the obvious state I was in.

They treated me quickly and with care.

They asked about my mental health history. I told them the truth. That I was already on SSRIs. That I had both a psychologist and a psychiatrist. That I was trying to do the right things to stay well.

For the first time in a long time, doctors did not disappoint me. For the first time it felt like someone understood that pain can exist even when you are trying your best.

But it did not change the reality.

I needed eight stitches.

Eight stitches for one moment of collapse.

I left the hospital around six in the morning. They were hesitant to send me home alone, but they did.

He knew what had happened.

But he could not come.

Instead he was angry.

He eventually came to see me that evening, around seven o’clock. The compassion felt half hearted. And in that moment I realized something devastating.

Even my life felt like it carried very little value.

What made everything worse was what followed. Somehow rumors began spreading. I was taunted for what I had done. I was accused of doing it for attention, as if pain like that could ever be a performance.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

But who would know?

Who would ever truly know what I felt that night? What it took for a person who had fought so hard to stay strong to finally collapse?

The truth is that no one can love you enough to save you from yourself if you are the one choosing to drink poison.

And that realization was its own kind of pain.

Living through that moment. Hiding my scars for months. Trying to love myself again after feeling betrayed by my own hands.

Time has a strange way of softening memories. One day I will forget exactly how it felt to be sitting on that floor.

But the body remembers.

The body remembers everything.

It remembers the pain. It remembers the moment you broke. And it remembers the moment you chose to survive.

And strangely, when I look back now, I do not only see weakness.

I see strength.

Because if I had not stopped where I did that night, I might have done something even worse.

And the fact that I stopped there tells me something important.

Even in the darkest moment of my life, some part of me still chose to live.

[From the Diaries]

The way this year started, I should’ve known not to hope for anything more.

It started with this feeling: a tight knot in my chest, nerves pulling at each other, my body showing all the signs of discomfort. A never-ending anticipation of things going from wrong to worse. A constant cycle of terrible and utterly disheartening surprises.

That was the start of this year.

It’s September now. My heart is in a bigger mess than it used to be. The pain is the same, but I’m sabotaging myself more. Maybe I just got tired of being good.

When I felt this way at the end of last year, that’s when life nearly collapsed. I had someone with me who would love and comfort me. But for reasons I will never understand, none of that seemed comforting.

I’m a fully grown adult who has managed every crisis I’ve ever come across on my own, and believe me, there have been quite a few. But this time, for some reason, it felt heavier. Like I could no longer pick myself up off the floor. This time it felt like me against the world.

And in all my adult years, I did something I had never done before. I called my little brother for help. I asked him to come because I wasn’t feeling well. I hoped that if I talked to him, I would feel a little better.

I think it helped. But it didn’t take away the sorrow.

This year was always meant to be shitty. It’s my fault for believing it would be different.

I will tell you this though: being knocked down when you’ve been nothing but good hurts your soul. But when you start to feel like maybe you did something to deserve it, it attacks your mind instead of your soul.

Both are personal hells.

And I don’t know which one I would choose if I had the option. Probably the one that rids me of any guilt, because these days guilt has become my poison.

[From the Diaries, July 2025]

Healing

I’d like to believe I’m healing. With a lot of missteps here and there, I still think I’m on the right path. I’m self-aware. I know my wounds. I know where it hurts, and for the most part I know why it hurts too.

But healing brought me something I wasn’t prepared for: the loss of feeling.

I don’t love people blindly anymore. I don’t hold on to people who don’t treat me the way I deserve. And that’s a big change for me, because I used to be the complete opposite.

I used to be the “love me, choose me” kind of girl. But the truth is, most of the time I was also the girl who stayed even when I wasn’t chosen. I was too understanding. Too forgiving. I gave people the space to play with my feelings without expecting any accountability from them.

I used to feel everything intensely. Now I feel almost nothing.

I’m not in love anymore. I’m not even in love with the idea of being in love. And honestly, I don’t even know what love means to me right now.

This relationship showed me some of the best and worst parts of myself. That’s what relationships do. Even when they don’t work out, they teach you something.

At first it showed me how big my heart is. How unconditional my love can be. How forgiving, nurturing, caring, and trusting I can be.

But eventually there comes a moment when you realize what’s really going on. And when that realization hits, everything shifts. It might feel like it’s too late, but in reality it’s the moment things finally become clear.

And then another part of me shows up. The part I’ve always known existed.

The cold part.

Once I switch off emotionally, I really switch off. To the point where it might look like I was never in love at all.

But I was.

And that’s what makes this strange. Because even though I’ve detached now, a part of me still wants to feel those things again.

I want to be in love again one day, but this time with someone who treats me right. I want to feel excited about someone. I want butterflies again. I want that childish happiness and that slightly crazy infatuation that comes with liking someone deeply.

Because the absence of all of that just feels empty.

[From the Diaries]

I don’t usually talk about how bad it gets.

There’s too much shame around it. The kind of things people don’t really understand. When something doesn’t look normal, people immediately react with discomfort. Icky. Ew. What’s wrong with you?

But for me, it’s just, reality.

Some days I can’t even begin to explain how it feels inside my own mind. I think deep down I know when a low is coming. It’s like something in my gut senses it before the rest of me does. But the timing is never convenient, never when life pauses and says, okay, now you can fall apart. So I ignore it as much as I can.

And because I’m able to keep functioning through it, it gets labeled something neat and clinical: functional depression.

Functional. As if that word somehow makes it manageable.

Because from the outside it looks like I’m choosing when to let it take over. Like it happens on my terms. But the truth is, it only looks that way because I fight it until I can’t anymore.

I’ve been in bed for over twenty-four hours.

Yesterday I forced myself to go for a run because the ugly voices in my head were getting louder. I started feeling heavy in my body, fat in my mind, exhausted in a way sleep doesn’t fix. I thought maybe movement would quiet it. Maybe a workout would shake something loose.

Instead, it made everything worse.

I’m not paralyzed, but I feel mentally handicapped. Like my brain is wrapped in fog and every simple task requires a level of effort I don’t have.

And then there are the relationships around you. The weight of them.

Lucky for me, there’s really only one that matters right now. The one I have with my boyfriend.

But even that feels broken some days. Damaged in ways I don’t even know how to begin repairing.

But then there he was.

When I get into these states, when my mind refuses to cooperate with the world, I stop trying to analyze it. I used to ask why. I used to try to solve it. Now I just let it wash over me and wait for it to pass, hoping that eventually I’ll come back to myself. Hoping the energy returns. The will to exist normally again.

On a TikTok live. With a woman he knows exactly how I feel about.

There had been rumors about them before. The thought of them together already made my stomach turn. And a few weeks ago I had found out that he had texted her from one of his fake accounts. His explanation was that he heard her grandfather had passed away, so he thought of messaging her.

“Helloooo,” he wrote. At 06:04 in the morning.

Does that make sense?

I wanted it to. I really did. I wanted to believe the explanation because believing it would have been easier than accepting what it actually looked like.

But it didn’t make sense.

And my mental state, my inability to function sometimes, is not an excuse for someone to take advantage of that vulnerability.

The person I’m supposed to be with should understand me. Especially the flawed parts. Because they are part of me.

But that wasn’t even half of what I discovered.

At one point I realized he had saved his ex’s number under his sister’s name. Clever. Calculated. And another girl’s number saved under a friend’s name, just so I wouldn’t suspect anything.

The level of intention behind that kind of deception is its own kind of cruelty.

So when I saw the TikTok live, something inside me snapped.

How dare you?

But what shocked me the most was that he was more angry at me for reacting. As if my anger was the problem. As if he couldn’t understand how that would look, how disrespectful it was, especially when we were supposedly trying to rebuild trust.

You say you want to fix things. And then you go and do something like that.

I don’t even have the words for the exhaustion that follows something like this.

I was already mentally drained.

And now, somehow, I’m expected to carry this too.

[From the Diaries]

So deeply uninterested.

Nothing feels exciting. Nothing feels new. There’s nothing I wake up looking forward to.

I feel alive when I look back at certain roads I’ve taken. But I don’t actually want to walk them again. The nostalgia feels electric. The reality probably wouldn’t.

It’s been this way for a while.

I try to put myself out there. I really do. But there’s this strange empathy that holds me back. A softness. A knowing that I’m not fully available. I reason with myself, tell myself it’s okay, tell myself healing isn’t linear. But I just can’t do it yet.

My therapist once asked me something that stayed with me. He asked if, with every relationship that ends, I feel like I lose a part of myself. Like a part of me dies with them.

I had never thought of it like that.

But I told him every breakup leaves me as a different version of myself. Some versions stronger. Some versions smaller. Some empowered. Some feeling less.

The only connection I’ve felt lately was one that promised permanency almost instantly. The minute I responded, it felt solid. And because it felt so easy, I thought it wouldn’t be so hard to feel that way again.

But it is.

Nothing sparks. Nothing shines. Nothing ignites that reckless fire in my soul.

And that’s why I keep looking back.

The most alive I’ve ever felt were the times I was doing something I probably shouldn’t have been doing.

I remember setting a time and waiting. Wondering if they’d show up. Wondering if they’d be early. Or late. Or not come at all.

One of them always showed up on time. The other barely did, and when he did, he was always late.

Maybe they’ll always be my favorite mistakes.

They were similar in the way they made me feel. But one reciprocated it more. It felt mutual. Like we were both burning at the same temperature. There was no escaping it.

June 2019.

A time I sometimes wish I could relive.

From a distance it feels perfect. Cinematic. Glowing. But it wasn’t. It was complicated. It was wrong in ways that should have made me ashamed. But I wasn’t ashamed.

Because I wasn’t demanding anything. I wasn’t pushing for more. I was just existing in it. Going with the flow. Letting it be what it was.

And he made me feel alive again.

That’s the dangerous part.

I’m starting to realize I might have a type. Smart. Corporate. A little reserved. Slightly intense. The quiet kind who surprises you with how deeply they think.

Short. Slim. Controlled.

Age doesn’t matter.

What matters is how they make me feel.

And right now, nothing does.