Some days are really hard to describe. It's not that I don't want to get out of bed, nor am I being lazy or overly dramatic. It's simply — I don't know where to go.

Being awake is just being awake. Eyes open, hand naturally reaches for the phone, opens social media apps, and then... swipes away. It's like muscle memory, but it doesn't bring any real sense of connection. I might spend the whole day waiting for a notification to pop up, as if only when someone reaches out to me can I believe that I haven't completely disappeared from this world.

I can't say who I'm waiting for. Maybe no one in particular. I just hope that there's someone out there who happens to be thinking of me.

I seem to always be 'doing things': giving advice to others, listening to their confessions, solving problems, like an emergency kit always online. But when my own emotions collapse, there seems to be no one who can get close to me. I want to get close to myself, but I can't.

Sometimes I open the editor, looking at lines of code neatly arranged like emotionless bricks. My hand hovers over the keyboard, not knowing what to type for the first line. At that moment, it's not only a brain freeze; it's as if my whole being is frozen. Do you know that feeling? Like being formatted, leaving only an empty shell.

So I dropped out of school. To be precise, I escaped. But honestly, escaping didn't make things much easier. Home isn't a safe haven; it's more like changing the background image while still sinking. Those unspoken things, the unprocessed emotions, are crammed into an invisible bottle, sealed, suffocating, occasionally exploding, only to be forced back in by me.

I often look back at my past self. That person trapped in a certain memory, that experience that can't be straightened out or finished, is like a thread tangled around my ankle. No matter how fast you run, it follows you. The most painful part isn't how heavy it is, but that it always reminds me: 'You haven't gotten better; in fact, you've never been okay.'

I've envied that kind of 'ordinary person' life. The kind where you get up early to buy a coffee at the convenience store, binge-watch shows after work, chat casually with friends on weekends, and laugh at your phone before bed. It seems there are no big ups and downs, but also no bottomless emotional black holes. I want to have that state too, even if just for a day. But I can't. My world always has some invisible weight, like an iron chain spinning around my head; whenever I want to relax, it tightens and chokes my breath.

My body also protests. It's not that I don't want to eat or move; it's that I can't. It's not laziness; it's powerlessness. Anxiety is like one hand, powerlessness another, they take turns strangling me. I can only retreat back into my shell, watching how others on my social feed 'live normally,' while I, like watching the excitement from the edge of the world, gradually become transparent.

I've tried to 'think positively.' I've also read philosophy books, psychology articles, and browsed 'self-help' type content. But you know what? The more rationality, the more pain. Because I really do understand it all. But understanding is understanding; those emotions still live in my heart and refuse to leave no matter what. This battle has no enemy, no audience, only myself, consuming myself over and over.

I'm taking medication and seeing a doctor. But recovery is not linear. It's not like if you try hard today, you'll feel better tomorrow. Many times, it's the frustration of thinking you've finally seen a glimmer of light, only to be pulled back into darkness the next second.

I want to talk about this process, not for sentimentality. Just to leave some trace, to prove that I am still experiencing, still feeling. That feeling of 'slowly fading' doesn't mean I'm gone, but that no matter how hard you look, you can't see me clearly.

It's bipolar... Sometimes I'm really happy, truly happy, able to laugh, jump, feel the joy of being alive. But when sadness comes... it's too real, it crushes me so I can't breathe. It doesn't need a reason or a trigger; it just stands there, refusing to leave.

You might ask, then why do you still write? Because writing is one of the few things I haven't lost. When I write, I can touch a real self — not the one who always says 'It's okay, I can handle it' to others, nor the one who asks 'Why haven't you gotten better yet?' but the one who, even when suffering, is willing to walk with herself for a while.

So, if you happen to see this text, maybe you are also stuck in the mud, maybe you are also unhappy, then I want to tell you — really, you are not alone. We are all trying. Some are louder, some are quieter. I belong to the latter, but I am still walking, even if slowly, even if I can't see the end, I haven't stopped.

I'm tired. The kind of tired where both body and mind send out warnings. So I'm leaving social networks and temporarily shutting all of this down. I don't want to play the role of anyone's trash can anymore, nor do I want to maintain that superficial 'I'm fine.' I want to keep some space for myself, even if it's just sitting quietly and staring off into space, even if it's just looking at the sky and doing nothing, that counts as taking care of myself.

If you are still willing to wait for me, I will come back. But for now, I want to keep a little silence, for myself.