Some days are really hard to describe. It's not that I don't want to get out of bed, not that I'm being lazy, and definitely not that I'm being dramatic. It's simply—I don't know where to go.Being awake is just being awake. Eyes open, hand automatically reaches for the phone, opens social media, and then... scrolls away. 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 I haven't completely disappeared from the world.I can't say who I'm waiting for. Maybe no one in particular. Just hoping that someone, somewhere, happens to be thinking of me.I seem to always be "doing things": giving advice to others, listening to their troubles, solving problems, like an emergency kit that's always on call. But when my own emotions collapse, there doesn't seem to be a single person who can get close to me. I want to get close to myself, but I can't even do that.Sometimes I open the editor, looking at lines of code neatly arranged, as emotionless as bricks. My hand hovers over the keyboard, not knowing what to type first. In that moment, it's not just my brain that's stuck; it's like my whole being is frozen. You know that feeling? Like being formatted, leaving only an empty shell.So I took a leave of absence from school. To be more precise, I ran away. But to be honest, running away didn't make things any easier. Home isn't a safe haven either; it's more like changing the background image while still sinking. The unspoken things, the unprocessed emotions, are pressed into an invisible bottle, sealed, suffocated, occasionally exploding, only to be shoved back in by force.I often look back at my past self. That person trapped in a certain memory, that experience that can't be straightened out or bypassed, like a thread tangled around my ankle. No matter how fast I run, it follows. The most painful part isn't how heavy it is, but how it constantly reminds me: "You haven't gotten better. In fact, you've never been okay."I've envied that kind of "ordinary" life. The kind where you get up early, buy a coffee at the convenience store, watch shows after work, chat casually with friends on weekends, and scroll through your phone before bed, laughing out loud. It seems uneventful, but there's no bottomless emotional black hole either. I wish I could have that state, even for just one day. But I can't. My world always has some invisible weight, like an iron chain spinning around my head; the moment I try to relax, it tightens and chokes my breath.My body protests too. 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 one hand, powerlessness is another, and they take turns strangling me. I can only retreat into my shell, watching how others "live normally" on my social feed, while I, as if watching from the edge of the world, gradually become transparent.I've tried to "think positively." I've read philosophy books, psychology articles, and browsed "self-help" content. But you know what? The more rational I am, the more it hurts. Because I really do understand it all. But understanding doesn't make those emotions leave my heart; they stubbornly stay. This battle has no enemy, no audience, only myself, endlessly consuming myself.I'm on medication, seeing a doctor. But recovery isn't linear. It's not like you work hard today and feel better tomorrow. Most of the time, it's the frustration of thinking you finally see a glimmer of light, only to be dragged back into the darkness the next moment.I'm writing about this process not for sympathy. Just to leave a trace, to prove that I'm still going through it, still feeling. That feeling of "slowly fading" isn't that I've disappeared, but that no matter how hard you look, you can't see me clearly.It's bipolar... Sometimes I'm really happy too, genuinely happy—able to laugh, jump, feel the joy of being alive. But when the sadness comes... it's too real, it suffocates me. 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 version of myself—not the one who always says "It's okay, I can handle it" to others, not the one who asks "Why aren't you better yet?", but the one who, even when it hurts, is willing to walk with herself for a while.So, if you happen to come across this piece, maybe you're also in the mud, maybe you're 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'm still moving, even if it's slow, even if I can't see the end, I haven't stopped.I'm tired. The kind of tired where both body and mind are sounding the alarm. So I'm leaving social media, shutting all this down for now. I don't want to play anyone's trash can anymore, nor do I want to maintain that superficial "I'm fine." I want to keep a little space for myself, even if it's just sitting quietly in a daze, even if it's just staring at the sky doing nothing—that counts as taking care of myself.If you're still willing to wait for me, I'll come back. But for now, I want to keep a little silence, for myself.
Sometimes, I Just Want to Quietly Find Peace
Some days are really hard to describe. It's not that I don't want to get out of bed, not that I'm being lazy, and definitely not that I'm being dramatic. It's simply—I don't know where to go.
Being awake is just being awake. Eyes open, hand automatically reaches for the phone, opens social media, and then... scrolls away. 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 I haven't completely disappeared from the world.
I can't say who I'm waiting for. Maybe no one in particular. Just hoping that someone, somewhere, happens to be thinking of me.
I seem to always be "doing things": giving advice to others, listening to their troubles, solving problems, like an emergency kit that's always on call. But when my own emotions collapse, there doesn't seem to be a single person who can get close to me. I want to get close to myself, but I can't even do that.
Sometimes I open the editor, looking at lines of code neatly arranged, as emotionless as bricks. My hand hovers over the keyboard, not knowing what to type first. In that moment, it's not just my brain that's stuck; it's like my whole being is frozen. You know that feeling? Like being formatted, leaving only an empty shell.
So I took a leave of absence from school. To be more precise, I ran away. But to be honest, running away didn't make things any easier. Home isn't a safe haven either; it's more like changing the background image while still sinking. The unspoken things, the unprocessed emotions, are pressed into an invisible bottle, sealed, suffocated, occasionally exploding, only to be shoved back in by force.
I often look back at my past self. That person trapped in a certain memory, that experience that can't be straightened out or bypassed, like a thread tangled around my ankle. No matter how fast I run, it follows. The most painful part isn't how heavy it is, but how it constantly reminds me: "You haven't gotten better. In fact, you've never been okay."
I've envied that kind of "ordinary" life. The kind where you get up early, buy a coffee at the convenience store, watch shows after work, chat casually with friends on weekends, and scroll through your phone before bed, laughing out loud. It seems uneventful, but there's no bottomless emotional black hole either. I wish I could have that state, even for just one day. But I can't. My world always has some invisible weight, like an iron chain spinning around my head; the moment I try to relax, it tightens and chokes my breath.
My body protests too. 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 one hand, powerlessness is another, and they take turns strangling me. I can only retreat into my shell, watching how others "live normally" on my social feed, while I, as if watching from the edge of the world, gradually become transparent.
I've tried to "think positively." I've read philosophy books, psychology articles, and browsed "self-help" content. But you know what? The more rational I am, the more it hurts. Because I really do understand it all. But understanding doesn't make those emotions leave my heart; they stubbornly stay. This battle has no enemy, no audience, only myself, endlessly consuming myself.
I'm on medication, seeing a doctor. But recovery isn't linear. It's not like you work hard today and feel better tomorrow. Most of the time, it's the frustration of thinking you finally see a glimmer of light, only to be dragged back into the darkness the next moment.
I'm writing about this process not for sympathy. Just to leave a trace, to prove that I'm still going through it, still feeling. That feeling of "slowly fading" isn't that I've disappeared, but that no matter how hard you look, you can't see me clearly.
It's bipolar... Sometimes I'm really happy too, genuinely happy—able to laugh, jump, feel the joy of being alive. But when the sadness comes... it's too real, it suffocates me. 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 version of myself—not the one who always says "It's okay, I can handle it" to others, not the one who asks "Why aren't you better yet?", but the one who, even when it hurts, is willing to walk with herself for a while.
So, if you happen to come across this piece, maybe you're also in the mud, maybe you're 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'm still moving, even if it's slow, even if I can't see the end, I haven't stopped.
I'm tired. The kind of tired where both body and mind are sounding the alarm. So I'm leaving social media, shutting all this down for now. I don't want to play anyone's trash can anymore, nor do I want to maintain that superficial "I'm fine." I want to keep a little space for myself, even if it's just sitting quietly in a daze, even if it's just staring at the sky doing nothing—that counts as taking care of myself.
If you're still willing to wait for me, I'll come back. But for now, I want to keep a little silence, for myself.