Life is not something we ask for

Love is such a weird concept. We give it away so freely to others, yet we hoard it from ourselves, convinced we don’t deserve it. That’s always been my reality. I’ve never been able to look at myself the way others claim to see me. I hear the words—“You matter,” “You’re important,” “You’re loved”—but they never stick. They just bounce off, empty echoes against the walls of my mind.

I’ve had a long life. Not in years, but in e re xperience. In suffering. In cycles of hope and disappointment, of trying and failing, of standing on the outskirts of a world I don’t understand. I’ve seen despair from all angles, worn it like a second skin, and you’d think that would be enough to keep me from slipping further into it. But life doesn’t twist that way, does it?

My mind is never quiet. There’s always something, some existential thought gnawing at me like a parasite. What’s the point? What am I doing here? Does anything I do actually matter? Will I ever stop feeling this way? The thoughts come in waves, relentless, crashing into every moment of peace before I can even grasp it. I get lost in them, drowning in questions with no answers, in a reality that feels more like an illusion I was never meant to be a part of.

I’ve tried to fix it. God, I’ve tried. I’ve tried distractions, throwing myself into things that are supposed to make people happy. I’ve tried to be the person people want to be around, studying the way they move, the way they talk, the way they connect. But I always fall short. My words never come out right. My actions never translate. People pull away, little by little, until I realize I was never really part of them to begin with. Friendships dissolve. Relationships crumble. I reach out, but my hands always close around nothing. I exist, but I don’t belong.

So I self-medicate. I do whatever it takes to quiet my mind, to fill the empty spaces with something, anything. Pills, alcohol, distractions—whatever keeps me from thinking too much, from feeling too much. But it’s temporary. It always is. The thoughts always come back, the loneliness always creeps in, and I’m left sitting in the wreckage of another failed attempt at making things okay.

I don’t know how to change something that has been a part of me for so long. I don’t know how to keep pretending that I believe in a future I can’t see.

I’m young, but my life feels complete. And maybe that’s okay.